Coming Home
by KathainBowen
Summary: McKay suddenly reappears afters years missing, but with no memory of what has happened, or even who he is. Can Sheppard get him to come home willingly after all this time? Or will McKay just slip away once more? Yummy amnesiac hurt/comfort abounds.
1. Echoes in the Rock

**ECHOES IN THE ROCK**

_**From the testimony of Lady Ti'ana**_

_I did not think him alive when I passed him the first time. Someone had beaten him, tortured him. By the time I got there, he did not seem to draw breath. There was so much blood everywhere and he lie so still that I did not bother to check for a pulse. Truth be told, I was more concerned about Aitrus, for however ashamed I am of that fact. But my father had told me to think of the Whole, to examine the individual factors and the totality of their sum weighted against one another. Regrettably, and to my eternal shame, I did not have time to sparing in stopping for someone who was already dead, not when the lives of my husband, my son, and all the D'ni where in such jeopardy. _

_I have read A'Gaeris's journal. I have seen with my own eyes what the so-called great "Philosopher" did to both the outsider and Veovis, twisting them both to his will. He detailed it clinically and with a disregard, as though studying an experiment. The things A'Gaeris did to him.... I.... I cannot imagine surviving what he did...._

_I left him. May the Maker forgive me for it, I left him._

_This is my testimony, and I do swear by it._

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He cannot go back to whence he came; he knows that now even if he does not know where exactly that is. There is only moving forward and away from what had perhaps been the most impressive empire to ever exist. But that is no more, nothing more than echoes in the rock and black, curling scrawls upon the page, lingering on long after their authors have returned to dust.

He still does not know where it all went so very wrong, how such a vast, glorious, and precisely ordered empire of D'ni could fall to disaster and chaos so quickly, so..... efficiently. He had been there to pay witness to it all, even through the eyes of an ahrotantee, an outsider. He had felt the tumultuous earthquakes rumble through what _should _have been stable rock, humming through the air, toppling elegant mansions and splitting a gaping maw of a jagged crack in the side of the main cavern. He himself had narrowly escaped being crushed to death beneath one of the many walls to crumble under the mighty tremors. He had stared impotently and slack-jawed as a vile, inky black cloud of gaseous death spewed from the crack, spreading over the lake with languid curls, almost insidiously hypnotic. Everything the vapor touched had died before his eyes, starting with the orange, bioluminescent algae of the lake before the cloud reached out with deadly intent for the city itself. At night, sometimes, he still hears the terrified screams and desperate wails of the thousands fleeing to the Common Libraries and the supposed safety of the Ages contained therein. When the cloud had settled, when the city turned unnaturally silent, and when he dared return, he spied the two traitors to the empire collecting their victims from where they dropped and ferrying them to the Ages, sending bodies rife with contagion through to the poor souls who had thought themselves safe. And, yet, despite having seen all that with his own two eyes, he still cannot fathom how easily the empire fell overnight.

Somehow, the lack of understanding in that regard is worse than not remembering his own name, his own identity before D'ni.

He stares out through his tinted, protective glasses in quick surveil at this, the most recent incarnation of his Age, before checking his own notations in his personal journal that permanently resides in his knapsack alongside several copy books of this Age's text throughout all of his attempts at chasing perfection. He has been at this for some time now, since long before D'ni fell. Each day, he carefully adjusts the words that craft his Age in the book that remains tucked away and hidden in what has become his study, delicately fine tuning the properties of this Age. Then, he copies the alterations to his journal and links, chronicling his discoveries upon linking, documenting his varied successes and failures in what would have surely been a master work. However, thus far, he feels no closer to manipulating this Age to his will than he did when he first began.

He sighs to himself, wistful at the damp saltiness of the air; a beach must be close. He misses the ocean, even if he cannot exactly remember it. He recalls little of his time from before awaking in the Guild House, surrounded by the Healers. What he does remember comes only in fleeting glimmers in his dreams, shards of recollections. He remembers a glittering, oceanic world, warm and salty like this one, with wide, blue skies and dazzling stars in the night.

The hint of nostalgia tugs him along unseen strings through the moist, mellow, deciduous forrest, green and budding in what seems a spring season to where the trees thin and part to a wide, sandy beach. It is sunny and warm, conforming perfectly to the precise description of the Age in its book, and, yet, it seems.... inherently _wrong _somehow. It smells slightly off to his scattered memory, and the colors do not seem quite right, distorted as though by tinted lenses. He misses _his _world, even if he cannot recall it accurately, perhaps as much as he misses the comfort of simple human interaction.

He shakes his head. He has been at this too long. His quest to find world of his dreams is constantly in vain, and his searches of the Ages had yet to yield any survivors. He is surrounded by death, both in the city and in the Ages. Every man, woman, and child of the D'ni empire. Whatever plague struck the city but spared his meager life has spread to the Ages, carried by the corpses linked through by Veovis and A'Gaeris, the bastards. After exploring an Age long enough to ensure that no survivors remain, he summarily burns each and every one of the books linking to that Age, fearful that, should any survivors return to the city alive and healthy, they might travel to these infected Ages in search of other survivors.

A part of him wonders why he alone is unscathed by the creeping, black death that swept the city, while another part of him constantly reminds the weary traveller that he is touched, tainted by the memories of the city and the shards of his own past. How long has it been? Two years since the fall of D'ni, since he last saw another living person. Five years since he awoke on Irrat without any identity save the fractured memories of a past that no longer feels his own. No, he may not have been physically afflicted by whatever killed so many, but that is never to say that he has not been emotionally scarred by the ordeal. He heart still aches even now upon recollections of both D'ni and a glorious, floating city upon his oceanic world.

No. He cannot go back to those thoughts. This will be his last attempt at completing this Age, for his heavy heart cannot bear the sorrow and disappointment any more. He will explore this Age for a few days to finish his survey and allow his heart to appropriately grieve this decision. Then, he will return to the city and abandon his quest for his ocean world. He has several _kortee'nea, _blank books for the intent of crafting an Age. He will write himself a new Age, a place where he can live out the last of his earthly days accompanied only by his guilt and woe. Perhaps something temperate and soft?

He shrugs to himself as he strides down the long, dusty dunes towards the water. There, he finds a rounded boulder to sit upon and peels off his protective glasses. He eats a small and simple pack lunch, listening to the lulling sound of waves rumbling in the distance and the sharp caws of gulls overhead. This world is a fairly pretty Age. A few clouds mar an otherwise wide, blue sky. The ocean surf sprays with white, billow breakers beyond wide shoals, while the waves lap gently at the creamy sand just a few yards away. The sun shines warmly upon his face, while a brisk yet gentle breeze caresses his cheek. The air tastes sweet and salty. If this Age were not so painfully familiar and so depressingly alien, he _might _have been tempting to call this place home.

He reaches into his knapsack for a sheet of vellum, a protective cover, a quill pen, a pot of ink, and his journal to write what is to be his last letter. He sets the pot of ink beside him on the stone, along with the polymer sheet, placing the journal in his lap and spreading the vellum across it for a smooth surface to write upon. It is a tradition for him now after all this time. He is not sure why he does it, for he always ensures that the linking book will be destroyed upon his return to the city, but he still does this. He leaves his story on every world he visits, hoping that it may serve as some sort of memorial to the once great D'ni people, penned out on a sheet of vellum and covered by a protective polymer sheet.

Midway through the initial paragraph introducing himself and tersely explaining his amnesia, a sound startles him. A soft, whirring noise from behind. He turns, glancing over his shoulder warily. He is relieved to find the woods still and silent behind him once more. It is likely a bird or small mammal; many of his attempts at his Age seems to proliferate in such innocuous life. However, he has encountered a few variations of his Age populated by large predators, and experience has taught him to be cautious, as he may very well be the last man alive in the known universe.

He shrugs it off, finishes his letter, and begins to recopy it in a second, angular and sharp script quite familiar to him but foreign to the D'ni. When he finishes rewriting his third sentence, punctuating with a flourished dab of his quill pen, something cracks behind him, like a twig snapping. He tenses up, going on edge now, yet, upon checking, there is nothing once more in the trees. He chortles noiselessly at himself, mentally chiding himself for being so easily frightened like a child.

It is only when he completes his copying and surveys his work that a voice calls from behind him. "Hello?"

He jumps now, spilling his precious ink to the sand into an expanding puddle of black, along with the journal and the vellum sheet. He does not care. He has not heard a human voice in two years, and it sends his heart racing, hammering in his chest and thundering in his ears painfully. He trembles. He wants to turn away, but he cannot, not when the faces emerging from the woods are so familiar, as though torn right from his dreams.

He holds his ground but his nerve breaks when the three approaching figures step completely from the woods, aiming their weapons at him. He steps back. The logical part of his mind shrieks and screams at him to say something, do something, do _anything_, but he cannot.

A tall, well built man that could has passed for one of the Maintainers from his bulk and stiff visage calls gruffly, "Hey..."

He closers his eyes, thinking they will vanish, but, when he opens them once more, the strangers remain. Two men and a woman, their faces fraught with concern as they exchange worried looks and lower their weapons. He quakes visibly and quivers violently, inexplicably.

The smaller of the two men, a creature with black hair that stands impossibly on end moves slightly forward, taking gingerly steps towards him with his palms out and flat to display their naked emptiness as one would approach an injured, cornered animal. "Rodney?"

He blinks uncertainly. Is that _really _his name? Is it truly so harsh and guttural? Oh yes, he had remembered at least snippets of his existence to know his name, but the language of the D'ni did not accommodate the hard sounds. The language he has spoken for five years is soft and lyrical in a way that he cannot properly explain, full of hushed utterances that coax the tongue to fluidity. The Healers had called him Rahd'ni, with a breathed "uh" sound slipped between the "d" and the "n," proclaiming the documents found by the Maintainers of his prior captors identified him as such. In this, his name's seemingly appropriate pronunciation, it sounds less like a name and more like a profanity, alien to him after all this time without knowing, gritting against his ears.

The dark haired man takes another, hesitant step, and he backs away, shaking his head. This cannot be real. It cannot. How could these strangers know him, know his name, when this Age is so utterly wrong? Blood rushes to his brain with absolute and unimaginable terror. He staggers backward drunkenly and stumbles on the sand, tripping slightly on the smoothly polished ink pot and nearly falling to the ground.

The familiar stranger's face blanches. "McKay.... Rodney.....it's just us..... we're not going to hurt you."

Rahd'ni freezes. He knows this somehow. He knows they would never hurt him, _could _never hurt him. But _he _could hurt _them_. He might be contagious even now, carrying the deadly plague that wiped out the D'ni.

"Rodney.... are you well?" The coppery woman inquires, raising a curved eyebrow curiously and radiating motherly concern.

Rahd'ni could have cackled aloud if only he could make his own voice work. His throat tightens and constricts when faced with the question, with all this sound and motion. It's too much, much too much. Dizzying. Chaotic. He licks his dry, salty lips and swallows to wet his suddenly parched mouth. His tongue abruptly feels too large and swollen somehow. He gives a harsh, coughing sort of laugh, all he can manage, shaking his head.

"Rodney, listen to me," the man with the pale face and ebony hair orders sternly.

Rahd'ni freezes tensely, his breaths turning ragged in an instant as the fractured shared of a memory bubbles up in his consciousness. He remembers the last time anyone called him by his name that way, so demanding of authority. That last person had beaten him savagely shortly thereafter, and Rahd'ni remembered the pain clear as day, the uncomfortable, terrifying fear of struggling to draw breath and a sense of drowning despite the fresh air all about him. He jumps wildly back once more and away from these strangers who dare speak his true name.

"Rodney..." the woman breathes, stepping towards him suddenly.

He panics and does the only thing he can.

"RODNEY, NO!"

Before these strangers can catch him, he wrenches the linking book from his knapsack, tears open the cover, and jams his hand firmly upon the glowing panel. He links.

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John Sheppard dashes in horror as the figure presses his hand into the book, shimmers, and disappears before the colonel can reach him. The book, now unsupported by any mortal hand, tumbles to the sandy beach and lands amid a scattered array of assorted items with a soft, muffled thud. Sheppard falls to his knees before the ominous, leather bound thing, reaching out with hesitant, fearful hands to cradle it and ease the cover open. His concern is warranted; it was, after all, a book not unlike this one that whisked McKay the first time.

Sheppard peers into the glowing panel, a window into another world. The small panel presents the image of a round, stone room, lined with bookshelves loaded with ancient, leather bound tomes similar to the one he holds, but far wider. The walls are stone, bare and almost cold. There is a stone door with scrolled images carved onto it. A lantern glows with eerie blue-white light from where it rests upon a desk. It is just enough light to see a shadow moving with something behind the view of the panel.

Sheppard closes the book once more and places it gently, reverently upon the sand. He can already hear Teyla radioing calmly for Lorne to bring both a team and Radek Zelenka to the beach to study the thing, but those sounds are watery and distant at best. It is the first opportunity they have had to study these strange books that hold such dreadful potential. When the first book took Rodney, Sheppard had regrouped, hopping in the jumper, and returning straight to Atlantis to fetch Zelenka, only to find a vat of bubbling acid in place of the original book. They will not be so foolish to let this book slip so simply through their grasp after all these years.

The colonel takes up the letter. The first portion is scripted in an elegantly flowing language of predominantly scrolled curls. It reminds him dimly of the elfish language adorning each and every copy of _The Lord of the Rings_, both dvd and book. It is nothing more than an ornate jibberish to Sheppard, albeit a pretty one. The linguists and anthropologists will have a field day with it when they get their hands on the delicate sheet of vellum, but that is neither here nor there. Below that block, however, is a snippet McKay's all too familiar handwriting, although jilted and awkward somehow, as though it is no longer native to him.

"What's it say?" Ronon rumbles from behind him.

Sheppard furrows his brow and reads solemnly, "To whoever it may concern, my name is Guildsman.... Raad-nee, and I am the last survivor of the...." He pauses at the word- _D'ni _- and frowns, guessing at the pronunciation, "Dunnay. Do not attempt to follow me or return to Dunnay, as I may still be...._ contaminated_." He jerks in surprise. "Shit. Call Lorne back. Tell him we need Keller and a biohazard team out here ASAP."

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Sheppard, Teyla, and Ronon spend the next four weeks in quarantine, subjected to countless tests and scans before Keller finally declares them clear of any sort of bacterial or viral pathogen known to the Ancient database. It is boring, monotonous, and utterly irritating. Time swells and drags endlessly, spanning before them like years when only days have passed. It is absolutely intolerable for John Sheppard, and, so, he spends his time pacing, working out, and sparring to keep his mind from drifting too far for too long.

However, when he pushes his body too far and he succumbs to the demands of a fragile, human body, that is when he cannot help but think of Rodney. Sheppard remembers with a deep, weighted guilt, that it is _his _fault that Rodney vanished without a trace. The team had traveled via space gate to a series of unexplored worlds that had shown signs of possibly harboring an indigenous people. The world, which only featured a single, rocky cairn of an island of interest poking from a vast, frigid sea, had been bland but beautiful in a solemn way, and completely devoid of human life. However, there had been a towering keep there, standing in defiance fo the freezing surf and chilling rain that pelted down over the waves, like something torn right from the pages of a fairy tale, and Sheppard had escorted Rodney inside while Teyla and Ronon kept watch outside.

_"I only turned my back for a minute," _Sheppard mentally chastises himself.

They had found a small room bearing one book when it happened. McKay had been jabbering away in Sheppard's ear, chittering like a little squirrel in complaint of why the Ancients always seemed so dead set upon inhabiting unfathomably decrepit worlds with dismal weather conditions while he approached the book. Sheppard, to his eternal shame, had rolled his eyes and turned his back to the physicist in annoyance, wondering absently why such a fortress would be so clearly abandoned. In the space of what amounted to a heartbeat, McKay had been gone, simply vanishing entirely. When Sheppard had turned back, only the book remained. Sheppard bears his guilt openly like festering wounds; he knows he should have been keeping a closer eye upon his friend, his partner.

That was why, when Radek Zelenka had spotted McKay's subcutaneous transmitter id on the array that Sheppard _had _to go, had to see for himself, and oh what a sight it had been. The man seated upon the rock had been a stranger to Sheppard's eyes. He had been dressed in strange clothes, something in between formal attire and a working jumpsuit, clad in a long cloak adorned with four symbols below the lapels on each side. His sandy brown hair had been long and grown out, swept back and neatly tied. Instead of the datapad and stylus Sheppard had been so accustomed to seeing in McKay's hands, there had been a leatherbound book and quill pen. He had looked less like the astrophysicist Sheppard recalled and more like a fairy tale nobleman or explorer.

The only fortunate thing about the medical incarceration is the fact that the four weeks leaves plenty of time for the SGC to ferry in Dr. Daniel Jackson and a team of anthropologists, linguists, and other researchers to assist Zelenka in decoding the mystery of the artifacts they had collected on the beach. For the first few weeks, when the three invalids inquire about the work, Zelenka has nothing to offer. By the close of the third week, when asked, Zelenka merely looks down and diverts the subject. It unnerves Sheppard to no end. When Keller and her cronies finally cut the team loose, Sheppard immediately leads the charge for the labs to demand answers from Zelenka.

The wiry Czech has the things collected from the beach laid out upon a work table, including the dreadful book. Zelenka is engrossed by his studies, and John allows him to work. Dr. Daniel Jackson and his team sit hunched over copies of the book's pages along with copies of the journal and the sheet of vellum Rodney had been penning. Occasionally, the anthropologist mutters to himself and scrawls a note down upon his own pad. John pointedly ignores the linguists working to unravel the secrets of that flowing language. His eyes skim across the other items, and he idly picks up the glasses, noting how fine and exotic they seemed with their varied levers and buttons to the side.

Zelenka notes his curiosity and gestures to the glasses. "Here. Allow me."

The Czech assists Sheppard in placing the glasses upon his head. The fit snugly and comfortably on the colonel, but he knows, upon Rodney, these unusual things would be downright airtight. Sheppard fiddles absently with the delicate settings, noting the changes in both opacity and magnification. After a moment's play, John shrugs the glasses off and sets them back upon the table carefully.

"So," John finally inquires. "What have we got?"

Jackson flusters for a moment, startled from his work, then settles quickly. "It's like nothing I've ever seen before." He gestures to the note. "McKay left enough English for me to build a rudimentary understanding of the language, but it's not enough to get a complete translation of both the journal and the book."

"Gimme what you got."

"Well, you know the first part." Jackson clears his throat and holds up the vellum to the light to read. "_To whoever it may concern, my name is Guildsman Raadnee, and I am the last survivor of the Dunney. Do not attempt to follow me or return to Dunney as I may still be contaminated._" He furrows his brow. "_It is the fault of Veovis and Augaris. They brought this creeping death upon us, upon the people who wronged them. _It gets complex here. It seems Raadnee has survived some kind of a both geological and biological disaster that killed everyone else but him." Jackson sighs in frustration and pinches the bridge of his now. "At least, that's as close as I can get. There are several key words here that seem to have no direct translation."

Sheppard nods acceptingly. "And the book? What do we have on that?"

Radek haves an exhausted shrug; he has been working on that particular problem for weeks now and has come no closer to a definitive answer. "Much... and nothing." He rakes a hand through his thin, scraggly hair. "I believe it to be a means of transit between this, our world, and to wherever the panel shows."

"How?"

Daniel pipes up, "We've only been able to decipher limited portions of the text, but certain phrases seem to reference a location."

"Like the Stargate?" Sheppard ventures.

Radek looks down. "The principles seem similar, yes, but, without actually testing it, I cannot be certain."

"Is it safe?"

"Excuse me?" Radek blurts.

"Is. It. Safe?" the colonel asks once more, slowly and deliberately annunciating each word.

"In theory.... yes. I would think."

Sheppard nods. "I'm sold."

"What?" Daniel breathes.

The colonel shakes his head and smiles almost wistfully. "Someone's got to go save Rodney's sorry hide."

The idea is instantly vetoed by the erupting chaos of squabbling voices.

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_**From the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_An outsider came to our remote island this morning, snared in a trap meant for any Maintainer or fool hard who dare follow in our footsteps and link through to this Age. He is unlike any bookworlder I have ever met. He is coarse in bone structure like the outsider Ti'ana, but rounded and portly. His hair is cropped short like that of a criminal, a prisoner. He is shrewd, arrogant, and bitter seeming in expression, often twisting his face into grotesque grimaces of displeasure. He often scowls and makes unintelligible remarks that are likely sarcastic in nature judging from the roll of his eyes and the tone of delivery. He snaps at us in a barking language in what is likely primitive profanities. He speaks not any language similar to D'ni, nor can he write, but he is cunning and intelligent beyond compare. Already, he has attempted several rather ingenious escape plans, only to be thwarted by the simple locking panels I keep upon each and every linking book not currently in use and the fact that I keep the only active linking book on my person at all times._

_He is shackled now, for both his safety and my own. _

_He has tools and devices the likes of which I have never seen, far more advanced than many D'ni tools, while occasionally lacking a finesse and a degree of fine detail of D'ni tools. A strange juxtaposition. I have toyed with these devices at my leisure and found them to be utterly fascinating in their nature. Did this outsider descend from an advanced race, perhaps something more than D'ni? _

_He often gesticulates and coaxes words from me. He is far more intelligent than he appears. He is attempting to piece together D'ni from mere fragments. He speaks softly yet forcibly, as though struggling to keep his own unpredictable and generally raging frustration within reasonably check. But he is learning, swiftly. He absorbs information readily, greedy for more._

_I have kept him as my pet for observation, already beginning with a simple experiment. He had been scratching idly at the floor, attempting to draw but finding the stone unyielding to his ministration. To satisfy my own curiosity at the machinations of this outsider, I offered him paper, quill, and ink to use at his discretion. The things he drew were crude in aesthetics, of course, but marvelous in sheer ingenuity and with enough detail to the schematics to seem plausible when compared to D'ni technology. He detailed out a ring like device and plotted constellations on the paper, gesturing frantically at it like I should have some idea of whatever grand concept he wanted so desperately for me to understand. I can see now, from these rudimentary mappings and schematics that his mind is a fruit ripe for the plucking. _

_He may prove useful. _

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A day later, Sheppard sits through the tedious briefing as both Zelenka and Jackson recount their findings on the books and the haphazard translation of this newly discovered language in Rodney's hand. He taps his foot on the floor nervously. He watches lazily and without care as both the scientist and the anthropologist handle the artifacts from the beach. The journal and its many secrets still trapped in the complexities of an alien script. The unusual glasses with their varied opacities and magnifications, as though intended for a scientist like McKay. He listens as they drone on and on, but his mind is not on their words.

When they pass him the book with the strange, glowing panel, Sheppard acts before they can stop him. He puts his palm to the glowing panel of the book, feeling an electric tingle at his hand. The world tears away from him with a downright stomach churning lurch. The image in the page seems to stretch and grow with an odd groan, engulfing Sheppard. The pages swallow him like a gaping maw, sucking him in until the world blinks away.

And, suddenly, he feels the same strange jolt of rematerializing on the other side of the Stargate, only worse somehow. His stomach rebels at the unexpected shock, and he collapses to his knees, gagging on the acrid bile lapping at the back of his throat. He swallows the nausea and staggers to his feet.

To those he has left behind in Atlantis, this is simply another in a long string of Sheppard's extremely rash, highly impulsive, and downright foolish of acts that will likely be his end one of these days. If they had been there, in he stone room where he emerges, they would know that Sheppard had prepared for this well, thought this out. In truth, all of his more harebrained seeming schemes are so. No one had noticed that Sheppard had arrived more than thirty minutes early for the meeting, with his pockets stuffed with supplies and a pack lashed tightly to his ankle just in case his opportunity arose to handle the book once more. He reaches down, pulls loose the slip knots binding the pack, and slugs the thing over his shoulder, smug in his actions.

He glances about and finds he is in the room the picture depicted on the inside of the book, while the book is not there with him. There is no lantern, but an eerie, orange glow illuminates the scene spread before him, the walls lined with ancient, leather tomes, the large, stone desk, and the stark _lack _of a roof overhead. Instead, there are silk sheets drawn overhead like sheer tenting.

He had expected to arrive in this place and expected that those he left behind in the staff meeting would be staring in horror at the book. To placate their fears, John reaches to his pocket and draws both a chemlight and a piece of chalk liberated from the stow of humble toys and amusements meant for the Athosian children. He snaps the chemlight and shakes it out, producing a radiant, neon green light. That, Sheppard sets on the desk. Then, with the white chalk, he scrawls a simple message upon the only door in the door, jumping the piece over the ornate curls of carvings.

_LtCol JS Safe_

It is not much, but it is all he can offer at the moment. He slinks through the door, carefully shutting it behind him and leaving the chemlight glowingly cheerfully on the desk in all its dayglow splendor. The message will remain, but, as the room was empty, there is no sense in his remaining. He draws his sidearm, along with a second chemlight, snapping it with a quick shake and holding both out.

The corridor beyond the small room is bathed in the same, unnatural seeming, orange light. It casts eerie shadows this way and that, drawing long, unusual shapes on the floor that Sheppard silently, cautiously treads. However, this world is oddly silent and still, and even his mere passing is deafening in the silence. He almost wonders that, in this almost primordial stillness, if his stealth is truly necessary.

Sheppard shrugs off the pondering as he moves through the corridor to a grand vestibule, equally as abandoned as the book room. John checks his corners before stealing into the open-air vestibule, roofed only be a filigree lattice of fine, black-red stone that seems to hold the light and glow back from within. The vestibule is bright and cheerful compared to the dour hall, flooded with an orange glow to illuminates everything. The delicate red veins look like smears of crimson blood under the green of the chemlight and the orange of this place. He ignores the sinking feeling the sickly black stone leaves in his heart and approaches doors that lead outward, only a wide, gaping balcony. He steps out and gasps at what lies before him.

"Jesus....."

John almost drops his sidearm. Almost.

The site spread before him is nothing short of amazing. He stands upon a balcony perched atop a great keep of a building towards the top of a towering spire of rock reaching up from a sea of glittering, light-giving orange. The spire seems to rise up from the ruins of a city beneath him, vast and probably once glorious but now silent and empty. Grand, elegant bridges arch this way and that, connecting different parts of the city. And, above him, there is even more. He glances out, across the sea and spies, to his great curiosity, little islands pocking the orange, and, beyond that, a crack, toothy crack of pure black against the brown void. It takes his mind a long moment to come to terms with just how large the crack must be in relation to himself and to the city he stands upon.

A part of John thrills at the discovery. Daniel Jackson would have been pissing himself in delight at the sight of this great town, and the five-year old inside Sheppard would have to agree. However, there are hundreds upon thousands of homes beneath him, some crumbled and ruined, while many stand relatively untouched. And, yet, he knows within him from the silence of this place that draws the blood to his ears, that no one is alive in any of those homes.

He cannot resist. "Hellloooooo?"

The call does not echo as he would expect and is, instead, swallowed up by the vastness of this place. For a moment, John attempts to mentally calculate just how large a cavern must be to do such a thing before abandoning the thought. He surveys the city below, pondering now just how long the seemingly short blocks truly are from this height, and suddenly realizing how immense of a task searching this hollow earth truly is.

A sound catches his ear, like the scuff of a booted heel, and Sheppard whips about on his heel, his firearm drawn and aimed at the silhouette in the door. His heart hammers in his throat upon spying the shadow in the hall, but he does not fire. Instead, he gasps at the familiar form standing there.

"Rodney?" Sheppard breathes in almost disbelief.

Rodney jumps, but there is no recollection in his eyes, only naked fear and panic. The cloaked man bolts. Sheppard follows, but the man is swift, faster than the colonel recalls. He ducks through the dark passageways and corridors of this odd keep without any light save that of the orange lake filtered through the awnings overhead, as though he knows this place like the back of his hand.

Sheppard calls after him, "Rodney, wait!"

But the figure shows no signs of slowly. Rather, his attempts at calling spurn the physicist faster. They race through the halls to where they open to a great, cobbled avenue, leading down, spiraling about the streets. His pace becomes frantic almost, his booted feet clawing out at the evenly formed street beneath them.

Ahead, the remnants of a once great building block their path. Sheppard smirks in satisfaction of a chase quickly ended, but Rodney gathers himself and scrambles up the side of the rock heap onto a narrow stone ledge left by the foundation of the building tearing away from the spire. He slithers over the tiny gap as it races upwards. Sheppard follows, his heart lodged quite firmly in his own throat as he scoots along the ledge as it rises from the buildings to another lane, his mind distantly rationalizing that a staircase must have once resided there atop the crumpled building.

This new, agile Rodney surprises Sheppard, easily slipping over rock heaps and through narrow passages that would have sent the old Rodney blanching white as a sheet and shrieking in horror. In fact, as the two descend from the upper levels of the city towards an of elegantly curved arches running towards a massive gating system, Sheppard feels the color drain from himself as Rodney thunders on over the smoothly worn stone. The thing is built like a feather, so fragile and delicate seeming, and so well polished by the tread of thousands of years of foot traffic. Ahead of them, this airy pathway is cracked with a wide, gaping maw of space where debris from overhead had obviously come down through it over whatever catastrophe hit this place. Rodney springs, skillfully throwing himself across the gap and fleeing down the other side.

Sheppard swallows as he approaches, but, at the last moment, his boot slips on the stone. He flies through the air, but he knows it is without the momentum necessary to carry him safely to the other side. Sheppard hurtles forward, his arms swinging and clawing out. When he hits the other side, it is only his upper body that lands with a heavy thump against his ribcage that tears a grunt from his lungs. The chemlight and his sidearm skitter across the stone, forgotten and useless anyway in this situation. His hands reach out for purchase, but the stone beneath his fingers is too smooth. A powder fine layer of sickly, yellow grime coats the rock, making it all the more slippery to the touch.

Ahead of him, Rodney rushes away, and Sheppard forces out, "RODNEY, SHIT, HELP ME!"

The cloaked form pauses for but a minute hitch in its stride, but it does not look back. Sheppard curses him under his breath as he ventures a glance over his shoulder. The drop is imposing, perhaps twenty or thirty feet, to another stone street below. It will hurt to land, and Sheppard struggles feeble to find any sort of purchase on a surface that feels buttery and cool to the touch.

"RODNEY!"

The scream tore from his chest as his fingers slipped on the worn rock. He has but a moment of terrifying, lurching freefall before he slams to the ground, below his feet landing first with a horrific, audible crack the echoes in the desolate alley. Sheppard cannot stifle his own scream of white hot agony, his body tensing and contorting with the pain. He reaches down instinctively, but the pain lances through his leg once more even before his fingertips reach the actual trauma. He doesn't need to see or to feel with his fingers. He knows; his lower leg broke in the fall.

John could almost kick himself if he weren't so deliriously amused by the thought. A strangled chortle bubbles up in his throat, but, in those lonely, dead streets, it sounds less like a laugh and more like a grizzly death rattle. He is alone, injured, and with no possible way to get back to Atlantis without McKay's help.

When the adrenaline subsides and his mind clears, Sheppard glances about himself. His pack lies perhaps fifteen feet away, not far at all, really. He knows there is a bit of a first aid kit in it. He should know; he cobbled it together at the last minute. Sheppard reaches for it, but his leg shrieks in protest at even the slightest of movement. Sweat beads his brow, and he nearly passes out before Sheppard realizes what a lost cause it is to even try for the pack now.

Instead, he settles back against the chilled pavers of the avenue, rears his head back and bellows, "RODNEY!" He waits for a moment, listening, but receiving no answer before he calls again, "RODNEY, IT'S SHEPPARD. PLEASE.... PLEASE COME BACK!"

Above him, a shadow looms over the edge of the bridge.

Sheppard trembles involuntarily. "Rodney..."

But no one answers

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Sheppard goes on calling until the world begins to dim about him, until his throat goes hoarse from his cries. He struggles a bit more fervently then for the pack, suddenly afraid of the encroaching darkness. His mind tumbles over its self, seeking a hundred thousand reasons for why a cave world might be dimming so strangely. It is a pathetic attempt at appeasing himself and assuaging any fears of serious head injury in the fall. However, the fear is more than enough tom motivate Sheppard beyond a pain that greys his vision at the edges whenever he dares even twitch a single muscle.

There is little in his pack to staunch his pain or properly brace his leg, but Sheppard has been in enough survival situations to know that a well motivated mind is key to survival. People far more adept at survival and in far less dire situations have succumbed purely by psychological failure alone. In time, just before the abandoned city plunges into full dark, he reaches the pack and its meager supplies, pulling out one of the spare chemlights and snapping it for another blissful twelve hours of neon glow. It is not much, but the green staving off the ever increasing shadows is enough to give Sheppard a limited morale boost.

He lies there in the street for a while longer, sipping a bit of the water in his pack but too nauseous to try to stomach any of the rations, trying to think through his next move. Sheppard had been think that the threat of whatever contagion Rodney had spoke of in the letter was the only thing keeping the physicist at bay behind the barricade of weathered, yellowed pages. He had initially assumed all he would have to do is touch the page, find Rodney, tell him they were all clear of any virus or bacteria, and bring McKay home to a happily-ever-after ending. Now that he has seen Rodney for his own eyes, he knows there is something else there, some sort of instinctive, animalistic terror that goes beyond any logic, something deeper and more perverse than just that. He wonders idly what he could possibly do now that his original plan has gone completely bust.

A sound catches his attention in the ever deepening shadows. Sheppard pricks to the motion. He sits up slightly on one elbow and holds the chemlight out with another.

"Hello? Someone there?" he calls softly, forcing his voice to remain even and unthreatening as possible while gritting his teeth against the motion. Something shifts in the dark, startling Sheppard slightly; he tenses and speaks once more, "Who's there?"

A small shape bursts from the dark, and Sheppard jerks back, yelping at the quick lightning hot pain bursting through his leg. When a ball of fluff leaps and pounces him right in the chest, Sheppard cannot help but chuckle ruefully at himself. It is a cat. Or, at least, it is what passes for something about halfway between a cat and a ferret of some kind. It is a slinky sort of animal, with what appears to be black, silky fur, deep eyes, a leathery neck, and a bushy tail. It mews at Sheppard like a kitten and nuzzles against him playfully. Sheppard laughs outwardly against the pain as the exotic creature licks at his hands.

"Jeruth," a rough voice beckons from the dark, as though unused to speech.

Sheppard stiffens, but the creature lifts it head in the direction of the call and sniffs before darting towards the newcomer. Sheppard remains there, suddenly frightened once more. The creature mews in the dark, clearly as pleased with the newcomer as it was with Sheppard's attentions, and a part of Sheppard relaxes oh so slightly at the thought.

Something snaps in the dark and flares quickly. A small orb of red light pierces the dark of the street. It bobs for a moment before it seems to nestle itself into a wireframe. A lantern. The same lantern from the desk, Sheppard recognizes. He swallows hard as the lantern approaches and the figure holding it comes into view. The cloak is drawn over the head, but the furred creature sits curled about the stranger's neck. When the figure kneels beside Sheppard, he feels himself impulsively strain away.

A hand shoots out from beneath the cloak, flat, empty, and almost reassuring, as the voice steadies enough to murmur. "Shorah." The newcomer pauses before muttering swiftly in a decidedly unintelligible babble with an unmistakably familiar cadence, "Khrehgitsahth gah khrensoygith-"

Sheppard holds up a hand, ignoring how it quivers with his pain and blurts out, "Whoa, whoa.... slow down." The stranger says nothing, as Sheppard peers through the shadows and breathes, "Rodney, is that you?"

When the cloaked figure reaches up to drop his hood and speaks once more, it is slowly and carefully, as though unused to the words that once spilt easily from his tongue. "Forgive me." He licks his lips. "I had... forgotten that you would not speak D'ni."

The word is a soft utterance, pronounced 'Dunny.'

Sheppard goes rigid. "You understand me, Rodney?"

"I haven't.... spoken this in some time," the man replies, the disquieting hesitation at the words emphasizing the point. The man frowns, furrowing his brow to Sheppard with a vague concern. "Is that.... is that my name? Rodney?"

".... uh.... yeah...."

The man shakes his head, as though unfamiliar with his own identity, because asking timidly. "And you.... do I know you?"

"Of course you do. It's me, Sheppard." When Rodney shows no sign of recognition, the colonel blinks between the surprise and the creeping agony climbing up his leg. "Rodney.... Rodney.... what do you remember?" When the man gives no reply, Sheppard presses, "Do you remember me? Atlantis? The Stargate? Anything?"

The physicist tenses visibly at the mention of his real name but shakes his head quickly. "I... don't."

"What is the last thing you remember?" Sheppard questions, feeling a knot of dread coiling in his gullet.

Something indiscernible flickers through the man's eyes. "My memories begin the moment I woke in the Guild House vaht hahrtee -" his face scrunches before he corrects himself -" five years ago with no name, no family, and no place."

"Alone?" Sheppard pressed, glancing around them at the still, dead city spanning about them.

"No." He looks down, averting his gaze strangely. "It was....before."

"Rodney..."

The man winces curtly at the name once more and scowls with acute displeasure, darkly intoning, "Don't call me that."

Sheppard flinches at the anger resonating in his friend's harsh voice, but he nods accommodatingly. "Sure... sure..." He shakes his head for a moment in thought. "Uh... what _should _I call you, then?"

"Rahd'ni."

The colonel gives a low now. "Um... right."

When John shifts his weight and hisses from the pain, Rahd'ni comments flatly and almost brusquely, "You're hurt." When he touches the leg and Sheppard's muscles tense, commiseration washes over those familiar and, yet, for once, utterly alien features. "Badly." Rahd'ni glances overhead to a small device on his wrist. "Wait here."

Sheppard rolls his eyes, wanting desperately to comment on how he isn't going anywhere anytime soon, yet he cannot bring himself to tease so. He does not wish to drive this strange, shell of his friend away with what had once been such familiar, playful, although mildly acerbic banter. Rahd'ni trots off, into the dark until he is nothing more than a bobbing, red light in the dark. He curls on his side, watching the light move about, worried that, perhaps, it will just wink out in the darkness of this dead city.

His fears are assuaged, however, when Rahdn'i returns in quick order, carrying two long staves of wood, perhaps some of the very little wood Sheppard has seen in this subterranean world along with a few long strips of fabric. He crouches beside Sheppard, almost hesitantly, as though faced with a deadly asp. The once brilliant astrophysicist licks his lips.

"This may be uncomfortable."

Sheppard shakes his head and gives a mirthless chuckle. "Sure could have fooled me."

"I will have to splint the leg so we can return to the Guild House," Rahd'ni tersely explains, reaching for the leg. "I can set it there." At the clear look of distrust in Sheppard's eyes, he quickly adds, "Lord Tullah insisted that Grand Master Deretheni teach me when they realized how I was."

"How so?" the colonel inquires.

Rahd'ni smirks, a faint ghost of a smile, chuckling to himself wistfully. "Lady Ti'ana preferred to call me 'Enyaloth.'" When Sheppard merely shoots him a questioning look, Rahd'ni blushes and sheepishly supplies him with, "The Sickly One." Sheppard actually hoots at that one, unable to control himself, sending Rahd'ni blanching. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just..." the colonel frowns, unsure of how to word this. "It's just that it's rather appropriate all things considered."

Rahd'ni furrows his brow, peering intently into Sheppard eyes as though seeking the some sort of barometer to the truth in the colonel, before he breathes, "Prove it."

The colonel flinches inwardly at the man's outward distrust, but he rolls his eyes and answers without hesitation. "Rodney.... er, Rahd'ni.... you're a.) allergic to citrus b.) a hypochondriac and c.) hypoglycemic. You get really sick if you don't eat regularly and keep your sugar up."

The stranger recoils almost reflexively, as though extremely unsettled by the exceedingly tactless yet truthful answer. Those blue eyes flash and pop for a heartbeat with what the colonel hopes to be remembrance. The colonel's heart flutters. Rahd'ni opens his mouth to say something and just as quickly snaps it shut, swallowing convulsively. The urge to speak, to dare question this small revelation that Sheppard undeniable knows _something _about him in earnest seems to tingle at the tip of Rahd'ni's tongue. To Sheppard's great dismay, in an rather uncharacteristic move of Rodney, the man's lips thin, and he composes himself and keeps any commentary he might have to himself. However, the conflicted, questioning look does not flee entirely, giving Sheppard some small glimmer of hope.

Sheppard reaches out and touches Rahd'ni tenderly by the wrist before the make can do anything, imploring, "If we just go back to Atlantis, Keller could patch it up in no time."

Rahd'ni looks down, a flicker of what may be regret drifting over his gaze, before he sighs in admission. "The book is in the Guild House."

The colonel wishes to argue, he truly does, but he cannot help but hold his tongue. There is a desperation in the blue eyes that stare back at him, a fear perhaps, lingering beneath the surface. Rahd'ni is afraid, deeply afraid of something. Sheppard concedes, nods, and silently allows Rahd'ni to work.

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The climb back to the Guild Hall is nothing short of misery, but Sheppard swallows both his agony and his pride as he allows Rahd'ni to bear most of his weight. He limps alongside the physicist, one arm slung across Rahd'ni's back. Fortunately, the avenue is even and easy in its upgrade, as though intended for heavy foot traffic.

At one point, Rahd'ni pauses at a heavy gate and props Sheppard up beside it; when the colonel furrows his brow, the physicist tersely explains, "I haven't finished unlocking all of the gates the Maintainers managed to close during the initial quakes."

Sheppard does not question and instead holds the lantern for Rahd'ni to see by. He takes a moment to study the lantern while Rahd'ni fiddles through his sack to retrieve a key. The lantern is not illuminated by any actual flame. Instead, a small, round sphere rests in the middle of a wireframe. It seems to both glow and swirl on the inside, like a marble. The thing glows and pulses with a warmth and life that vaguely reminds the colonel of a ZPM, only far smaller and safer, organic almost. Sheppard reaches a tentative finger through the structure of the lantern, instinctively drawn to the sphere like a moth to the flame. He hesitates. What if it is hot?

"Fire marble," Rahd'ni pipes up. "You can touch it," he insists, as though sensing the question on Sheppard's tongue. "It won't burn."

Sheppard reaches with a slender finger and graces the small sphere with a fingertip. The fire marble, surprisingly enough considering the name, is quite cool to the touch. It is a delightful little marvel, and Sheppard realizes grimly that perhaps this tiny artifact is only a tiny glimmer of the wonders this dead city might hold.

A click draws Sheppard's attention from the fire marble, and he looks up to see Rahd'ni turning an unusual key in its appropriate groove. The gate hisses with a hydraulic release of some kind. Then, with a heavy thunk, the gate slams open, revealing a much nicer seeming part of town than the limited area Sheppard had viewed from where he had fallen. The buildings here stood taller, spanned wider, and spread further apart. He put together the security and the architecture and reasoned this was the "nice side of the tracks."

Sheppard shrugs it off and lulls in the motion, letting his world distill down to the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other and ascending the lanes and alleys back to the keep at the top of the spire. He is thoroughly exhausted and worn by the effort of keeping up with the man shouldering his weight. He is hardly consciously aware when they shamble back into the Guild House, or when Rahd'ni eases him into one of the stone niches and manipulates his injured leg and the bones therein. He screams once when Rahd'ni adjust the bones and goes silent.

He does not see then, the pained expression on Rahd'ni's face as he turns away to scribe the unusual occurrence in his journal as just another in a long list of events since the downfall. Rahd'ni checks the time piece in his pocket, logging the time he estimates this newcomer linked to D'ni. Sheppard does not see the cursory survey Rahd'ni gives him, noting his approximate size in both length and pounds, and his relative physical condition. The notes are terse and clinical to a fault, hardly including a name, while the name of the Age he suspects this "Sheppard" came from merits more attention. He painstakingly scrawls down the name he has christened that Age with, even if it is not a true D'ni name.

_Lantea._

Rahd'ni does this because he knows that, when Sheppard falls to the contagion just like all the others, his documentation of Sheppard's inevitable progression to the raging, hallucinatory fevers and eventual cardiac arrest may very prove necessary to his ongoing studies of the plague that destroyed an entire civilization within weeks.

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_He tumbles to the ground in an uncoordinated, crumpled heap, his body aching with various bruises. A cloaked figure looms over him, dark and silhouetted against a blinding, frozen white light. He flinches, recoiling as a hand reaches down to grab him sharply by the chin. Long talons of fingers dig into his rounded cheeks and haul him up by his jaw alone. He whimpers against the cold, against the pain, and against the fear that consumes him so thoroughly. _

_He bickers, a surge of defiance flaring through him as he spits, "Get your damned hands off of me!"_

_A balled fist slams into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. The blow is driving and deliberately aimed to hurt but not seriously injure. He sucks in sweet, chilling air until it tickles devilishly at the back of his throat. He coughs, hacking up a wad of blood and mucus in surprise. _

_Cold, icy eyes survey him stiffly and a voice rumbles stiffly in his ears, "Na'grenis."_

_A second set of eyes roves hungrily over his bruised and battered body, and all he can think is, "_C'mon, Sheppard! Where the hell are you and the calvary when I need you?"

_"Pft. Rildil roob bahro." Another voice intones before he is cuffed sharply on the side of his head. _

_When the hand releases him to the ground once more, a booted heel connects swiftly with his head, and the world of consciousness bleeds away._

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Rahd'ni jerks awake with a start shortly before second bell, long before the light giving algae of the light become active. He so rarely sleeps beyond perhaps second or third bell anymore, despite the fact that none of the soft chimes that once marked the passage of time break the stillness that is this tomb anymore. His dreams do not allow that, the fitful nightmares of a past fragmented into dazzling shards of little to nothing. Master Relem, of the Healers, had cautioned Rahd'ni to be prepared for such dreams and fleeting glimmers of memories, that his past and identity could surface at any given time at any trigger, or never at all.

He staggers from his pallet, drenching in sweat and still shaking from the last remnants of the dream. He knows, at the time, he did _not _speak D'ni. That much is certain. The words had sounded alien and bizarre to him.... at the time, nothing more than lurid babble. However, now, Rahd'ni understands what was being bandied about over him.

_"So brittle."_

_"Pft. Nothing but an animal."_

They had been toying with him right in front of him. But why? What did he do?

It's sad. Relem had instructed Rahd'ni to embrace these memories, for they were the only thing that could make him whole again. Instead, these fragments that range so wildly from tortuous to bittersweet to utterly mundane leave him numb and hollow feeling. Rahd'ni finds no comfort in these memories and finds it almost unbearably ironic, really, that the memories and dreams that _should _theoretically make him whole serve only to point out how fractured he truly is, with a diabolical precision.

Sheppard stirs in his sleep momentarily, but it is still too dark to see accurately by. Rahd'ni furrows his brow and strikes a fire marble, setting it in the cast lantern and turning it to the stranger he somehow intrinsically knows. Sheppard stirs again, his brow knitting even in sleep. It is a nightmare. Rahd'ni leans over Sheppard, idly wondering if perhaps he should wake the stranger, but he decides against it. The man will need his strength when the illness takes him.

He remembers vaguely thinking and hoping for this man to come and rescue him. The man's features appear so familiar as he settles once more. Rahd'ni admonishes himself for not asking the night before who Sheppard really is, what ties do they have to one another. The man had seemed so downright adamant that they knew one another, when Rahd'ni bears little to no recollection of such.

Rahd'ni shakes his head and departs.

He does not like this.... this not knowing; he appreciates facts and concrete information that cannot be tainted by memories or emotions. He leaves Sheppard in favor of his limited experiments, where the stringent laws of physics and thermodynamics leave not even the slightest margins for such irksome shades of grey. Only steeped in his calculations and experiments laid out neatly upon the parchment can he truly forget the numb darkness of his forgotten past and appreciate the awesome beauty of the math and the mechanics, allowing it to blossom before him. He knows the mathematics have always been absolutely gorgeous, but, before he learned to appreciate D'ni math, Rahd'ni never truly appreciated how seamlessly the calculations could flow together, especially when coupled with their curling script.

This is a part of his daily routine, rote and perfected after so much time. He sleeps fitfully in the night, and, upon waking, Rahd'ni shuffles to his desk to work. There is something familiarly alien and yet oddly relaxing to this, as though this is an old habit woven and laced deep through every fiber of his subconscious. He will work for a few hours, savor the sweet taste of an unfathomably beautiful world of mechanics and mathematics that transcend the limits of both his guttural, seemingly native language and the lilting language that is D'ni. When he eventually descends back down to reality, to the lonely cavern that is D'ni and to the ancient, island city of Ae'Gura, he will eat a sparse, simple meal and return to the Council Chambers to study their records and further his understanding of the biological disaster that struck D'ni. And, after that, he will return to the Guild House to fine tune his Age.

Sheppard murmurs something in his sleep. It startles Rahd'ni, this sudden remembrance that he is decidedly not alone anymore, and he jumps, hunching protectively over his work instinctively. He is not sure why he does this, but he does it anyway. He thinks to himself that there may have been a time from that ever elusive space before he awoke when Rahd'ni had many onlookers holding their breaths and staring in awe over his shoulder. He shudders at that thought. The last people he vaguely recalls standing over his shoulder had savagely struck him on the oft occasion, although Rahd'ni is not certain why.

There is something dangerous to his work, he knows it instinctively. When Rahd'ni had begun with his initial calculations, long before D'ni fell, he felt guided, as though someone else were ghostwriting the work _through _him or as though he had already done this before somehow, and it had frightened him immensely even then. The Maintainers and Surveyors had immediate noted how similar his work was to D'ni technology, worrying that he were perhaps backwards engineering the manufacture of both fire marbles and the power supplies so natural to the D'ni. Guild Master Relem had insisted the Maintainers allow Rahd'ni his work, in hopes that it might assist him in rebuilding some of his lost past. However, Rahd'ni had moved beyond simple fire marbles and batteries in short order, leaping forward into something fretfully powerful, something even Rahd'ni knew to fear and respect like the flame. The Maintainers, ever cautious, in particular about the nature of the ahrotantee, had brought the matter before the Council, and, in the end, when it had become apparent that Rahd'ni's skill and knowledge far exceeded that of even the greatest of Guild Masters, it had been the intervention of Lord Eneah alone that allowed Rahd'ni to continue his work.

Rahd'ni shivers to himself at the thought, but he cannot explain why.

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A playful mew rouses Sheppard to the supernatural orange glow of the world about him. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, regaining his focus once more and finds himself supine on a stone niche in the wall with a simple pallet for a bed. The furry creature from the night before nestles at him, nudging his hand as though imploring to play. It gives another curious sort of mew and prods at the colonel with a curious paw.

"Jeruth," Rodney's voice growls from not too far away.

_"No," _Sheppard corrects himself mentally with a tight, sharp, contraction of his heart. _"Rahd'ni. Not Rodney."_

"Jeruth," the stranger wearing his friend's face calls once more. "Mahlah tomeht, Jeruth." His voice drops low, as though gently chiding an infant in soothing warnings. "Koozah ah ahrotahntee."

The catlike creature that Sheppard now recognizes must be "Jeruth" - makes a plaintive sort of sound, not quite and meow, but now quite a whine either, and reluctantly leaps from the warmth of Sheppard's chest. He follows the motion of the creature as it pads gently and almost silently across the floor to the base of a large chair at yet another of the D'ni's imposing desks. Jeruth rubs against the base of the chair, and the figure in it leers over the creature.

"Beerah, Jeruth," Rahd'ni commands sternly to the creature before reaching down, stroking the leathery hide about Jeruth's neck and returning to his work.

Rahd'ni sits at a wide desk, hunched over a few ancient seeming tomes. His shoulders curl over the work as his quill pen scritches over a piece of paper. Rahd'ni mutters to himself under his breath and hastily pens something down, but Sheppard cannot tell if it is in D'ni or merely unintelligible Rodney-babble. It is _just _like the good old days, watching Rodney labor over some unsolvable Ancient dilemma. For but the briefest of moments, Sheppard can almost pretend that the years have not been so cruel and so very long.

Jeruth breaks the spell, giving another soft mew.

"Oehnahzo b'rees?" Rahd'ni stifles a chortle and shakes his head absently. Hepauses in his work to pat the creature at his feet and gives a shushing noise before noticing Sheppard's eyes upon him. "Shorah." Rahd'ni blinks and sheepishly corrects himself, speaking in English now. "Sorry. I forgot." He flushes at the social blunder and checks his time piece. "Good morning."

"How can you tell?" Sheppard asks inquisitively, his gaze cast upwards to a cavernous ceiling, as though pointing out the stark lack of sunlight to indicate day or night.

Rahd'ni smirks knowingly. "The lake." When Sheppard cocks an eyebrow at the answer, the man rolls his eyes in a rather _Rodney-ish_ of expressions and explains. "The lake is inhabited by several species of bioluminescent algaes and planktons which give it the glow in a distinctly diurnal and nocturnal periods of activity and dormancy, giving a sense of day and night.... or a distinctly black and orange kind."

"Gotcha."

Rahd'ni approaches slowly and offers Sheppard a tumbler of a reddish liquid; when the colonel eyes it warily, the man explains, "Just juice mixed with a mild painkiller to take the edge off."

Sheppard gulps the sweet juice down, but his stomach rumbles desperately, growling audibly in the stillness of the place. He has not eaten since the day before. The colonel looks to this stranger and wonders when Rahd'ni last ate. It has been some years since he had to worry about Rodney's constant badgering about his supposed hypoglycemia. However, old habits die hard, grizzly deaths, and Sheppard finds himself wondering when was the last time Rahd'ni ate.

Rahd'ni smirks though. "Hungry?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

Rahd'ni nods and gathers up his papers in a hurry, stuffing them into a book and shoving that into a knapsack. "Come on. I'll make you something."

Sheppard cocks his head at the offer but says nothing; instead, he clambers to his feet unsteadily with Rahd'ni assistance and hobbles beside the man through the long, barren halls of the House. There seems an endless amount of twisting and turning halls, each with hundreds of rooms, most filled with books or supplies. It is Daniel Jackson's wet dream, but it is too eerily empty and quiet for Sheppard's taste. It rattles him instinctively. The only lost empires and peoples Sheppard has ever seen so well preserved are those left in the wake of a Wraith culling.

_Sheppard shouldering his weight, his arm slung across the colonel's back. The warmth of Sheppard against his body as he limps. Running together._

_Sheppard screaming at him, urging him. "Almost there, Rodney, almost there. Just a little further."_

_A puddle of glittering light pooled in a massive ring that could have easily been a locking collar to a newly excavated tunnel node. A sense of home. A sense of welcome. A wash of brilliant light. Then stars.... just stars and dust._

Rahd'ni tenses at the flicker of memory, but Sheppard notices the shift in body carriage and quickly diverts his attention by asking almost reverently, "What is this place?"

"The Guild House."

Sheppard shakes his head. "No, all of this. The island, the city, all of it."

"This?" Rahd'ni sighs, perhaps too heavily and mournfully, the grief all too evident in his guarded expression. "This is all that is left of D'ni."

Sheppard says nothing more.

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_**Excerpt from the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_The bookworlder resists. I have spent the last three weeks teaching him D'ni. He had been learning slowly occasionally prompting me to learn his language. I cuff him from this error repeatedly on his ear, yet it seems to bother him more when I simply deny him food for such a transgression. Not for long, not to starve, mind you. He grows anxious and nervous when denied nourishment, growing quite jittery and sweating profusely. He often holds his abdomen or head as though in a nonspecific pain, as though his race is designed to be a grazing race, ill-equipped for periods of longer than eight hours without food. It seems to impair him mentally, making him irritable and fatigued, but much more receptive to lessons so long as nourishment is within metaphoric sight. A single meal denied a day is generally enough to curtail his insolence for a few hours, and he recovers quickly once fed again. He is learning far more swiftly now and with only petty, childish sulks in place of once furious outbursts. He speaks, but only in rudimentary phrases, baby-talk really. _

_Ah, but he is swift to twist what little D'ni he knows into sneering insults, the hallmark of a cowardly fool hiding behind brave words. I shall have to purge this new habit of his from him if he is to continue to live in my good graces. _

_I suspect he is up to something, this outsider, this pet of mine. There is something to his eyes. He is plotting, ever plotting, his hands always moving, always in motion. I fear he may try to kill me. I do say try, for he is a smart creature, as I have said so often. Surely he knows his salvation from this Age of mine can come only through myself, Suahrnir, or Veovis. And, yet, still he plots. I often wonder what gears turn in his mind, what he must think of we pale D'ni. Does he see us as weak and fragile, hoping to overtake us by brute, physical force? Again, I think he is aware that he could never. But he is most assuredly planning._

_[The handwriting changes suddenly, from controlled, neat strokes to jagged, harsh letters, written hastily with hard pressure upon the page]_

_I hear something. _

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Sheppard sits awkwardly across the plinth from Rahd'ni, watching at the man darts in and out of the great, vastly stocked pantry. The kitchen and pantry are both tremendous in size, obviously meant to serve the hundreds of people of this "Guild" Rahd'ni continually mentions in passing. There is perhaps a month or two's worth of food stores and rations lining the shelves for all those men, perhaps three or four lifetime's worth for Rahd'ni.

Rahd'ni sets his knapsack along with a few exotic items down on the plinth between Sheppard and what seems to be a preparatory area. They appear to be varied sorts of fruits and vegetables. A detached and rather distant part of Sheppard's mind notes the sprigs of green leaves attached to a round, orange fruit that seems to be almost apple-like; those tiny bits of emerald suggest a photosynthetic plant, meaning there must be sunlight somewhere in this world of D'ni. Rahd'ni ignores his study and takes the orange fruit to carefully carve into the juicy flesh with a sturdy and finely honed blade to prepare a simple fare of what seems like a sweet porridge with a mixed fruit.

When he hands a bowl to Sheppard and receives a soft chuckle from the colonel, Rahd'ni does take notice and raises an eyebrow. "Hm?"

"Nothing. It's just...." the colonel shrugs. "You never really struck me as.... culinary inclined." He takes a bite and smiles. "Pretty good. I'm impressed."

"Don't be," Rahd'ni snorts. "It's pretty much all I can make."

_"Coffee." Handing a cup over to someone, a woman with strawberry blonde locks who smiles warmly at him, affectionately, tenderly, lovingly. "I wanted to make you breakfast in bed, but this is pretty much all I can make."_

Rahd'ni blinks dumbly at the flicker of memory and swallows it whole. He has not the time for these fleeting glimpses to a past that no longer feels his own. However, Sheppard is staring with wide, curious eyes that bore into him. He flusters and looks down to his bowl, prodding at the porridge but accomplishing little more than shoving the food about his bowl.

"Did you know me well?" Rahd'ni inquires, curiously but timidly, as though afraid Sheppard might lie to him.

The colonel nods encouragingly. "Yeah... I mean, we are on the same team, so we worked together, but you are kind of..."

He pauses, as though searching for an appropriate word; Rahd'ni guesses hesitantly, "Private? Or perhaps introverted?"

"I was going to go with 'abrasive,'" the man admits with a small laugh, as though his own, private joke.

_Sheppard's voice. "Face it, Rodney. You're an ass. You've always been an ass. And you're always going to be an ass."_

When the joke obviously falls flat and Rahd'ni fails to respond to the jibe with his own, cutting snipe, Sheppard blanches sheepishly at the concern written in every feature of Rahd'ni's face. "Sorry. Um... you and I... we used to kind of take pot-shots at one another all the time. I was just joking." Sheppard swallows and goes serious once more, answering honestly, "You are a private person, I guess. I always kind of got the impression that you hide behind your genius and sarcasm like a suit of armor just to keep people from getting too close." The colonel shrugs half-heartedly. "I think that's kind of way you and I got on. Neither of us really seems to like people seeing the _real _us."

"Then, we were friends?" Rahd'ni presses softly in a shaking voice.

The man's distinctive use of past tense unnerves Sheppard, but he ignores it, seeing no point in forcing anything prematurely and frightening the man off. "Yeah." He pauses and shakes his head. "No. I take that back. No, you, Teyla, Ronon, everyone on Atlantis, we're more like one, big, messed up family."

Rahd'ni picks idly at the fruit for a long moment before breathing, "Am I... as you remember?"

The colonel frowns, having not expected this question. "Well.... you're far quieter than you were before. Never this...." Sheppard struggles to find the right word but comes up desperately short. "Polite. Submissive almost." He glances up to Rahd'ni's imploring face and tries to tactfully evade these more difficult subjects. "And your hair was waaaay shorter. What is this? nYou going for a new, hippy look or just trying to make Zelenka look clean cut?"

_Snarling at someone, a wiry, startled seeming man with wispy, thin, but long hair._ _"And if I wanted your opinion, I would give it to you."_

Rahd'ni stiffens oddly, his eyes staring sightlessly into the bowl before him; finally, he shrugs. "Only convicts and servants wear their shortly cropped hair. Guildsmen of D'ni status wear their hair long."

Sheppard flinches at the thought of how Rodney must have appeared to these people, then, upon his initial arrival with scathing sarcasm and short hair. After a long pause, he returns to idly lipping at his food, eating little of it, really. Again, this does not go unnoticed by Sheppard, who takes a quick inventory of Rahd'ni, of how thin he seems, of how deep and shadowed his eyes appear. Rahd'ni must sense his scrutiny and pushes the bowl aside, his appetite soured by the memory.

Sheppard sets his bowl down purposely on the plinth, places his hand upon Rahd'ni's pale wrist, and says quite matter-of-factly, "You need to eat."

Rahd'ni's brow knits. "I'm not hungry."

Ordinarily, the colonel might have expected that statement to sound petulant and childish from Rodney, particularly granted the intense scowl of scrutiny upon the physicist's face. Instead, the words sound sullen and hollow, practically a sigh escaping Rahd'ni lips. It only serves as a further reminder as to how vastly different of a man Rahd'ni is from the Rodney Sheppard remembers.

Sheppard glances down at his splinted leg rather pointedly and shrugs. "Suit yourself. But if you go into hypoglycemic shock, there's no way in hell I'm going to be able to haul you to bed with this bum leg no matter how good of a painkiller that fruity drink is."

Rahd'ni looks up, a glimmer of surprise in those eyes. "Hypoglycemic?"

"Yeah." When Rahd'ni casts his gaze downward, perhaps in shame or perhaps in confusion, Sheppard goes on, explaining softly, "You always told me you had hypoglycemia. You have to eat regularly or you blood sugar drops too low and you get seriously ill because of it."

Rahd'ni fiddles with a pocket, patting it subconsciously. Sheppard does not know what is in that pocket, but Rahd'ni does. Ti'ana had been the first to figure it out when the Healers assumed that he was simply a sickly creature. She made him carry small packets of dried fruits in his pockets wherever he went, but only she had known about Rahd'ni's illness. Even now, the little folded vellum about a handful of dried berries is a small reassurance. Yet Sheppard had _known _long before that became an issue, known intimately about Rahd'ni's problem. It stirs unsettling emotions within the hollow soul that is Rahd'ni.

"Speaking of that stuff, we should be getting back home, get the doc to take a look at you and slap a cast on this leg of mine," Sheppard announces before grimacing and adding, "It's gonna be like dragging an anchor."

"Home?" There is confusion upon that face once more, thick and suffocating, strangling any coherent thought that might be in Rahd'ni's mind.

"To Atlantis," Sheppard breaths in gentle assurance.

A part of Rahd'ni shivers involuntarily, his eyes drifting to his knapsack. "No."

"People miss you, Rodney," the colonel insists softly.

Rahd'ni tenses at the sound of his name and states more firmly this time, "No."

"You have to go back, Rodney. We need you on Atlantis, and you know it."

A part of Rahd'ni brain screams, _"No, they don't. They never did."_

The thought is unbidden and alien to Rahd'ni. It reeks of sorrow and something else, something more. Betrayal, perhaps? Yes. That is the sentiment there. It stings at his heart and twists at his nerves. Betrayal. But Rahd'ni cannot place the context of this emotion. He drifts with it, lingering with the familiarity of the painful emotion, wallowing in it. He remembers this feeling, this darkness and despair permeating all of his thoughts and willing his every action. He just cannot place where or when. Alarm creeps into those blue eyes, belaying his panic attack to Sheppard, as Rahd''ni struggles to pull himself together and hold his nerves.

"Rodney. You are coming with me."

_A coldhand pressing down upon his neck, squeezing the muscles sharply and digging mercilessly into a myriad of bruises, both fresh and old. "Come here."_

The order, no matter how calm or stern, jerks Rahd'ni from his hazy reverie with a start, and he jumps back. He blinks in shock, the color draining from his face as his heart races. Another voice had pushed him, gruff and bitter, in D'ni. His heart races, turning his breaths to ragged, terrified inhalations. He trembles violently, quaking in unbridled fear. Sheppard clambers gracelessly to his feet and reaches for Rahd'ni, but, before those hands can snatch him, Rahd'ni bolts.

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_**From the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_My but he is a stubborn creature, that scheming little weevil! I had retreated to allow him but an hour or so respite from his studies, only to find he had been building...... something! He tried to hide it when I entered his cell, but he is a slow creature. I cannot tell what the device's purpose, but the bookworlder had cobbled it together from spare parts of his own machines and a few fire marbles i had careless left in his presence. I destroyed the machine, of course, but what sort of damage may it have done to my carefully planning and positioning?_

_To my regret, we must depart from this Age to another, if only to avoid attracting notice from either the people of this strange outsider and from the Maintainers. But, oh how he will be punished once we are settled once more. I have not waited this long for my revenge to have a mere outsider ruin it!_

_But, oh, his suffering shall be exquisite for it._

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It takes some time for Sheppard to make his way back to the Guild House, to the study that has been Rahd'ni's refuge for he cannot tell how long. It is difficult. The halls are labeled by ornately carved plaques, but they are in the script language that Sheppard cannot read. Everything appears the same to him. The same, smoothly worn floors and curled mantles. Yet, eventually, he finds his way and slumps down onto the niche, his leg throbbing from the exertion.

He tries not to think of his leg, and, instead, muses on the downright horrified reaction when Sheppard merely stated that he was taking Rodney home. He replays the situation over and over again in his mind, recounting the words and questions passed between them. He shivers at the stiffness to Rahd'ni. He contemplates severity of the reaction and weights it against the length of Rahd'ni's stark isolation in this grim tomb, surrounded by nothing but empty houses and stiff corpses. The soldier wonders how long it takes in solitary confinement for a body to lose their mind entirely, even if it is not intended as torture.

He flops down onto his back and dozes for a time. When he wakes, Sheppard stares up, through the silk screens to the cavern ceiling. Without sunlight, there is no hint to the passage of time here, and his watchface is dreadfully smashed from his fall. There is no way to be certain if it is late, or how long he spent wandering the halls. The only things that are certain is the ache to his leg and the knowledge that he is not alone.

The scritch-scritching of a quill pen upon paper alerts Sheppard to the presence at the desk, but Rahd'ni does not acknowledge his presence. Instead, he seems to pour himself more furiously into his work, hunching over the papers protectively, his muscles taut with tension. This is not unusual. It is, in fact, a gesture Sheppard recalls quite well from Rodney; the physicist did it often enough in his presence. Rodney - Rahd'ni, whoever - is angry at him, annoyed. This is his simple, primitive yet utterly effective avoidance technique, hoping to drive Sheppard and his pressing, uncomfortable questions.

"Rahd'ni?" the colonel calls, being careful to use the name this stranger specified before; he must be careful now to draw the clearly frightened and confused physicist back in, like coaxing an abused dog back to human contact. "Whatcha workin' on?"

The man says nothing, curling tighter over his work.

Sheppard scowls. "Rahd'ni?"

It is an effort to maintain his soothing tone, especially when the man at the desk hardly seems to flinch at the name.

Sheppard folds his arms across his chest. indignantly. "You can't ignore me forever."

Rahd'ni stubbornly resists, but his writing becomes harsh and swift.

The colonel ventures a new gambit. "You're afraid."

Rahd'ni pauses in his work, raising his head slightly before returning to his work.

Sheppard smirks to himself at the reaction. "It's the contagion, isn't it? The bacteria or virus or whatever that killed everyone."

The hissed reply is just a shade louder than a whisper, so quiet that Sheppard almost does not hear the correction. "Everything."

"Everything but you," the colonel corrects pointedly.

"Everything," Rahd'ni insists in a hushed breath, a frightened urgency to his tone, a desperation that seems unbecoming. "Even the algae in the lake."

The soldier holds his tongue for a moment before loosing the question that has been on his mind ever since he came to D'ni. "Rahd'ni.... what happened here?"

"A'Gaeris and Veovis did this." He sighs heavily. "At least, this is what Veovis told me." Rahd'ni shakes his head and rubs his eyes. "It's complicated, from what little I understand. A web of lies and deceit to lure Veovis into A'Gaeris's plans for revenge against D'ni, and I don't know the whole story."

"That's alright," Sheppard concedes willingly, now that he has Rahd'ni talking. "Why don't you fast forward to the important stuff? The contagion or whatever?"

"Hmm? Yes, of course." Rahd'ni blinks and looks down, fidgeting nervously from even this coaxing, plying request as though it were an order given at gunpoint. "It was night. It started with the quakes, great trembles in the rock. The Surveyors Guild had always insisted that the rock of D'ni was stable, very stable." Rahd'ni closes his eyes, drifting with the memory of the night, the coolness of it, the calm, mellow glow of massive fire marbles in the lamps that lined the streets and avenues. "It was... peaceful. Just the hourly chimes. A few parties. The sounds of the boats on the lake. People were asleep in their homes when the quakes hit. Some never left their homes. The quakes were so strong, they opened up a crack on the far wall."

Sheppard nods slowly, absorbing the information, mindful of the great chasm he spied in the wall upon his own arrival to D'ni. "Go on."

His eyes squeeze tighter as he allows the memories to flood over him. "I've been to the crag. I've seen the machines, the downfall of D'ni. They must have caused the quakes, amplified the vibrations in the rock, with this.... this device. It was familiar to me. Intimately so. And they used the ventilation units from the Surveyors to pump toxins through the crack."

"What toxins?"

Rahd'ni shrugs but does not even crack an eye. "I can't be certain. But it was something...._biological_. It was some kind of a black cloud, spreading towards the city. Everything died when it touched it. The algae. The fish. People. Everything. It was death coming for us. But it was more than just a mythological figure. It was definitely some sort of a virus or bacteria."

"How do you know?" Sheppard questions.

Rahd'ni pauses. "I went with the Council men to a world where they, along with the Five Lords could deliberate a course of action. A few days afterwards.... a body came through. It was dead and pale, but otherwise perfect, as though the man had just dropped dead. We buried it and went back to deliberations. I wasn't a Council member, so my input was limited, but I was welcome in their refuge, much moreso when they fell ill. Within hours.... they were dead. All of them." Rahd'ni's lower lip quivers as though he is about to cry, but the urge is stifled quickly. "I couldn't bury them all, so I left them in their chairs where they dropped. It was obvious. The contagion came in with the corpse."

"What happened, then?" the colonel presses.

Rahd'ni shrugs, abruptly noncommittal. "I came back here."

Sheppard furrows his brow and thinks for a moment, licking his lips. "You're not sick."

"No," Rahd'ni admits ruefully. "But I may be a carrier."

It is the faintest hint of the old Rodney. Only Rodney would be such a ridiculous hypochondriac to fancy himself a carrier for some sort of grizzly, lethal infection. Yet Sheppard cannot entirely blame him. Had he survived such horrific events, Sheppard likely would have though himself a carrier as well, a potential Typhoid Marie or small pox blanket ushering fresh death into unsuspecting worlds. It is a tiny kernel of the original Rodney lingering beneath the surface, the part of him that has clearly seen _Outbreak _and read _The Stand _far too many times.

Sheppard glances to the windows, to the dusky orange glow of the algae. "The algae, it's alive even now."

"I might not be shedding enough of the contagion to kill the algae en masse like during the initial waves," Rahd'ni intelligently counters.

Sheppard inhales deeply, making a show of it. "I'm not dead."

"I has only been a day or so. It took four for the Council to perish," Rahd'ni argues sullenly, his head hung like a child facing a spanking.

The colonel shakes his head, making a point now of using his real name. "Rodney, did you ever stop to think about _why _you might not be affected by the sickness? You alone and no one else? Not a soul." Rahd'ni says nothing, and Sheppard pushes, harder now. "Rodney, you're not from this world. You and I probably have antibodies that these people didn't have, maybe a natural immunity."

"And where are we from?" Rahd'ni snarls.

"Earth," Sheppard breaths simply, without hesitation.

_Earth. Canada. Home. Jeannie. Home. ATLANTIS! A thousand voices scream in Rahd'ni's ear, but it comes as nothing but noise, jumbled and distorted._

Rahd'ni stiffens, rises, and leaves once more in a huff. Sheppard sighs slumps in defeat, however, to his piqued intrigue, Rahd'ni has left whatever it was he so intently poured himself into spread across the table. All his work and notations. Sheppard hobbles to the desk and gasps in astonishment at the schematics laid out with their precise D'ni notations and calculations neatly labeled and pulled off to the side. What Rahd'ni designs is nothing short of awe-inspiring, to a point that Sheppard cannot fault nor find any humor in.

Instead, Sheppard collapses into the massive stone chair where Rahd'ni works and runs his fingers through his hair in shock, whispering, "Jesus, McKay...."

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_**From the testimony of Veovis**_

_I knew A'Gaeris to be displeased with his pet project long before we left that world. He had adopted the outsider, took the fragile, pathetic, sniveling beast under his wing. He was teaching the outsider our language, our writing, but the outsider relented. A'Gaeris discovered him, one night, building some sort of device. Naturally, the Philosopher disposed of the device, fearful that it might be a beacon of some sort. _

_We withdrew from that Age to another, to the Age A'Gaeris had dubbed Gitsahth, the Age that treacherous snake, Ti'ana, eventually snared us in. Gitsahth is a strange Age. The sea is viscous and dark, filled unimaginable beasts. The island itself pokes up into a great, stone keep, A'Gaeris's secret foothold where he amassed his books and supplies. There were piers reaching out from the island. One to the linking point. Another to a cage partially sunken into the water._

_I did not know the purpose of that cage when we arrived, however, it became quite clear in short order. A'Gaeris beat the outsider savagely. When A'Gaeris's rage had been sated and the outsider lie in a sniffling, broken heap that could barely draw breath, the Philosopher had Sauhrnir haul him to the edge of the pier to the cage. At his master's behest, Sauhrnir dumped the outsider into the cage, shackling his wrists about the great lock to hold the outsider upright and keep his head above water. A mercy, really. If you ask me, A'Gaeris would have been better suited to just do away with the beast, but, when I suggested simply putting the stupid thing out of its misery, A'Gaeris just tutted me, voicing that he had a purpose for this outsider. _

_A'Gaeris left him there alone._

_The first day, the outsider did nothing more than to curse us quite vocally in both D'ni and his native tongue until his screams were nothing more than whimpered, feeble protests. He grew especially quiet when A'Gaeris insisted that his serving man, Corlam, serve our evening meal outside on the terrace that overlooked the cage. He was hungry, most assuredly, this captive of A'Gaeris's. The Philosopher knew this. He made every bite of his own meal a well exaggerated act, torturing his captive with the sight of it alone. _

_By the second morning, the outsider seemed quieter, more subdued, but A'Gaeris knew better. As soon as the Philosopher was within sight, the outsider snarled and snapped like a wildcat. Yet, whenever A'Gaeris retreated to the keep, the outsider merely slumped in exhausted defeat. By the evening of that night, he was sweating and trembling, hanging his head. That afternoon the outsider could hardly speak D'ni coherently, and, still, A'Gaeris left him there, pointedly ignoring the outsiders feeble pleas for help, for food._

_At night fall, A'Gaeris finally went back to his captive in the cage. He knelt and held a cup of warm broth just beyond the outsider's reach. He spoke softly to the outsider, in murmured words not meant for my ears. I did not bother listening, not until A'Gaeris patted the outsider on the head, lifted him from the cage and brought him back to the keep, reeking of the saltwater and human filth._

_The morning after that, the outsider seemed far quieter and far more amenable to A'Gaeris's tutelage. A'Gaeris even managed to coax a formal greeting from the outsider. Rodney McKay he called himself, no longer as boastful and proud as he once was. _

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Sheppard sits in Rahd'ni's chair for hours, reviewing the papers and schematics he has found. They are nothing short of brilliant, these carefully drawn sketches and diagram, yet painfully detailed in a language he cannot read. He wants so much more now that Sheppard can practically taste it. He reviews them slowly and carefully, pouring over every minute pen stroke to each of the diagrams, memorizing the pictures. He ignores the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the slowly dimming light about him, thoroughly engrossed in these images that Rahd'ni has so carefully drawn and annotated.

Something warm and furred nudges into his ankle; Sheppard glances down and smirks. "Well, hello there, Jeruth."

The catlike creature mews softly at him and jumps up onto the table. It circles once and, then, plops down onto the papers, purring in content. Sheppard cannot help but laugh at the audacity of this creature, musing on how only Rodney McKay could find something so like an Earth cat in this dark place. The colonel reaches out and strokes the leathery neck.

"I know you're there, so quit sulking in door frames," Sheppard calls without looking back.

"How did you know?" Rahd'ni inquires curiously, approaching slowly, striking a green fire marble and setting it in the lamp.

Sheppard shrugs. "I just _know _you."

Rahd'ni says nothing for a long moment, staring out the windows of the study to the silent city and the placid lake spread before him. He does not move, the stillness so very unbecoming of Rodney, and so very unsettling. In Sheppard's eyes, Rodney should be full of motion and activity, spouting both biting insult and sophisticated insight with equal fervor. In the dying evening light of the lake, Rahd'ni appears exhausted and haggard, scrawny and hollowed. He looks tired. Sheppard worries for a moment, considering the very dire possibility that Rahd'ni might actually be ill, but he stifles the urge to say anything.

"You know me well apparently," Rahd'ni finally concedes sullenly.

Sheppard nods quickly. "Yeah."

"Tell me."

The colonel furrows his brow, setting down the page he had been studying. "Hmm?"

"Tell me," Rahd'ni implores, more urgently this time, his shoulders stiffening.

"Tell you what?" Sheppard asks.

Rahd'ni shrugs. "Everything."

Shepaprd blinks at the mammoth task and swallows. "Ok..., well, you're originally from Canada. You have a sister named Jeannie. She's got a daughter named Madison that you gripe about but I think secretly treasure considering you keep just about every drawing she sends tucked away in a hiding spot you _think _I don't know about. I didn't, by the way, but Teyla and I found it when we were boxing up some of your things to send back for Jeannie to... remember you by."

"I have a sister that mourns me?" Rahd'ni interjects, still not facing Sheppard.

The colonel flinches outwardly at the error, wondering if perhaps he should have guarded some things from McKay at first, but, seeing no sense in backtracking, he nods. "Yes. Jeannie was torn up when you were declared KIA. I... Keller, Teyla and I went to bring her your personal effects and to attend your... funeral."

"There was a funeral?" Rahd'ni's voice trembles oddly, as though choked; he stares out, distantly.

Sheppard frowns again at his lack of tact - a social blunder that _should _have been Rodney's - before nodding in admission. "Well, Woolsey and the SGC eventually had to give up the search for you and concentrate man hours in fighting the Wraith." He sighs heavily. "You were initially declared MIA, but, after three years, they switched your status to KIA." He shakes his head. "Jeannie and Keller needed some kind of closure. I think we all did."

"Was it...." Rahd'ni fidgets, wringing his fingers nervously now. "Was it nice?"

"It was a funeral, Rodney. Are they ever 'nice?'" Sheppard questions in a playfully mocking tone of voice that felt appropriate at one point but that he now regrets. "I guess it was.... nice." The word _tastes _sour, and, so, the colonel just shrugs. "If you like funerals."

"Hmmm..." It is a measured contemplative sound, expressionless and collected.

"Don't be pissy," Sheppard states simply before flushing. "Um.... speaking of not getting mad, I.... er.... liberated some rather choice comics and chocolate from that little stash of yours. And I... uh.... hid your more.... _personal _effects from Keller and Teyla, but, really, hiding stuff like that under the mattress wasn't all that smart considering you're a genius."

Rahd'ni gives a side glance, looking down to survey the dead city below, musing on the words of Lord Sajka. _"You are destined for greatness, Rahd'ni, the likes of the greatest of D'ni writers. Your skill is unquestionable."_

"I am?" Rahd'ni asks, but it sounds like he is merely seeking confirmation of his own suspicions rather than any great truth.

"You're the most brilliant man in two galaxies and not too modest to say so, and this if, of course, ignoring the fact that you once blew up five sixths of a solar system. You can fix anything. You built an atomic bomb for your sixth grade science fair- which, by the way, sounds like a really cool way to get expelled," Sheppard admitted with a cocky grin.

"Was I?"

Sheppard shrugs. "You never told me."

Rahd'ni gives a chortle. "I thought you said you knew me well."

"I did," Sheppard breathes with a nod. "I just.... Beckett knows you better."

_Beckett. Scot. Sheepherder. Voodoo witchdoctor. Dead. Dead. Dead. _

Rahd'ni blinks at Sheppard, surprised. He remembers. He remembers a plain, wooden casket. He remembers Sheppard at his side, bearing the casket along with him. He remembers the heft of it upon his shoulder, almost reassuring and yet utterly sickening at the same time. He remembers the lurch in his stomach, the agony, the sense of loss and utter despondency. Sheppard's grammatical error of verb tense bothers Rahd'ni immensely, his stomach coiling with tension. It must be a lie; Rahd'ni swallows his commentary, having learnt long ago the quiet calm and rationale of the D'ni. He is suddenly very relieved to have brought the book to his Age of Lantea with him to the study.

"What else?"

Sheppard smiles warmly. "You're deathly allergic to citrus, or so you claim, and a serious hypochondriac which - not going to lie - I've always found _really _ironic since you think medicine is a 'soft' science and more like voodoo."

Rahd'ni chuckles to himself, stroking the book in his arms. "You know me too well, I think."

"Maybe." Sheppard draws a deep breath and surveys the papers before him; he announces as steadily and calmly as he can muster, "And I know what you're making."

Rahd'ni jerks, his attention obviously roused by the statement. "And?"

"It's a ZPM. A zero point module." Sheppard turns slowly in the chair, grimacing as the muscles in his leg pulls before smiling uncontrollably. "Rodney, this is.... it's absolutely incredible."

Rahd'ni snaps. He cannot say why for certain, but he goes wild. Sheppard is a liar, a blatant liar, and, now, the outsider has his hands on Rahd'ni's designs, plans he knows to be nothing short of absolutely dangerous. Rahd'ni claws wildly through the air for his designs to snatch them up.

Sheppard clutches the papers to his chest, arguing, "Rodney, do you have any idea how important this is?" Rahd'ni scrambles frantically, clambering over Sheppard and reaching for the sheets of vellum; Sheppard merely holds them just out of reach and barks, "Do you have any idea what this means for Atlantis, Rodney?!?"

"Give me them!" Rahd'ni cries out.

"Rodney, this could save millions of lives!" Sheppard argues vehemently.

_"Think of the Whole, Rahd'ni," Ti'ana's words. Her philosophy. Her father's teachings._

"Think of Atlantis, Rodney!"

_"Think of the suffering, Rahd'ni." Ti'ana again, her voice soft and frail. _

Sheppard bellowed angrily, "Think of all the people this would save, Rodney!"

_His breaths, ragged and hoarse with pain. His fingers, snapped and mangled, twisted into unnatural angles, screaming in agony. Mucus and tears streaming down his cheeks, hot and scalding. Difficulty breathing. World spinning, the paper blurring before him, the words suddenly impossible to distinguish in two languages. A large hand gripping his pinky finger._

_A hard voice, snarling in his ears. "I grow tired of your obstinance, Rodney!"_

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" the man shrieks suddenly, viciously, recoiling and twisting away suddenly in horror at the flicker of a memory.

In his surprise, Sheppard freezes, the papers slipping from his hands. "Rod... Rahd'ni.... I'm sorry." The physicist falls to his knees, reaching out at the papers; Sheppard reaches feebly from the chair and murmurs sadly, "Let me help."

"No."

Sheppard's face falls. "Rahd'ni.... I didn't..."

"I'm sending you back." The man says it with little to no emotion as he piles the paperwork in his arms.

Sheppard gulps in surprise. "Rahd'ni.... you don't."

"I'm sending you back, and that's final," the man snaps, standing up suddenly and placing the heavy tome that is the Age of Lantea on the desk. When Sheppard does not move, Rahd'ni tears the cover open, presenting the glowing linking panel. "Well?"

"Rahd'ni...." Sheppard whispers. "Rahd'ni, don't do this."

The man gestures angrily at the panel and demands once more, "Well?"

Sheppard stands slowly and with no small amount of effort. "Rahd'ni.... don't.... don't shut us out. Please."

"Go," the man grinds out.

"Please," the colonel whispers. "Please. Just...." Sheppard sighs. "I'm not good at this. Neither of us are." He meets Rahd'ni's cold and bitter gaze. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Rahd'ni growls. "No, you don't know."

Something strange flickers in the stranger's eyes, and Sheppard flusters. "But you don't either." Rahd'ni trembles, the rage remaining, and the colonel nods. "Rahd'ni....." He pauses oddly and looks down. When Rahd'ni's face stills and calms, Sheppard begs, "Come with me."

"I'm staying here," the man argues firmly.

"Is it because of the sickness?" Sheppard presses. "Dr. Keller cleared the rest of us, and she can quarantine you if that's what you're afraid of."

"No."

"But.... don't you want to know who you are?" Sheppard offers, knowing just how tempting the offer would be the otherwise proud Rodney McKay. "Isn't that worth leaving here?"

"No," Rahd'ni states flatly, holding the designs protectively to himself.

Sheppard notices the reaction oddly and looks to the open book before him, conceding, "Alright, alright. But are yourself something, Rahd'ni. Why would you ask me all those prying little questions if you _didn't_ want to know?"

Rahd'ni's adam's apple works. His eyes glisten with unshed tears. His trembles have gone with minor tremors to serious, almost convulsive shivers. Sheppard knows he has struck a nerve. Sheppard swallows hard, hoping he has won this small battle.

"Rahd'ni.... Rodney.... you're my friend. Please." Rahd'ni turns away, but Sheppard advances, placing a hand on the man's shoulder only to have it swiftly shrugged off. "Rahd'ni, please. I've.... we've.... we've been looking for you for so long now... don't turn away from us now, don't shut us out now that we've found you." When Rahd'ni shudders, Sheppard sighs. "It was my fault."

"What?" Rahd'ni rasps.

"It was my fault," the colonel repeats. "I.... I was supposed to be keeping an eye on you. It's my job." Sheppard looks down to his feet, suddenly feeling quite ashamed. "I.... it shouldn't have happened."

A tear slips down Rahd'ni's cheek; he scrubs it away.

"I just..... I just wanted you to know.... I'm sorry, Rodney," Sheppard heaves in earnest.

The admission sends Rahd'ni's heart contracting, but he blinks back tears and strengthens his resolve, pointing to the book. "Just go." When Sheppard does not move, he whispers desperately, "Please, just go."

"You can give it a try to remember... you know. If it doesn't.... if you want to come back, if you don't like it.... we'll let you.... but please, please, give it a chance." When Rahd'ni chokes back a dry sob, Sheppard withdraws his reaching hand as though scalded. "You don't trust me."

Rahd'ni does not need to say anything. His gulped, controlled breaths and the severity to the taut lines of tension beneath his clothes speak volumes. It is the elephant in the room, and Sheppard was just the first to vocalize it. The colonel nods slowly at the realization, remembering the amnesia and the years of loneliness, wondering just how bowed Rodney has become under these years, how twisted he has been to morph into this Rahd'ni.

"It's okay," Sheppard finally heaves sadly in a tired, dejected sounding voice. "You once told me that you worried that you had 'permanently dimmed my faith in your abilities and trust.' You said you hoped that you could earn it back."

"I may have."

Sheppard winces at the coldness to the voice there, the tightness Rahd'ni speaks with. "It's okay if you don't remember. I know I said something.... hurtful then. But, now, I just want you to know that I _do _trust you. I always have. And I want you to know that you _can _trust me." When Rahd'ni shows no sign of backing down, the colonel feels his heart collapsing inward. "Just....just think about what I said, Rahd'ni. If you want.... to know who you are, where you come from, you.... you know where to find us. Just, think about it."

"I..." Rahd'ni turns away. "I will."

The words stir a vague hope in Sheppard, and he licks his lips. "Think about it."

Sheppard says nothing more and turns slowly to the book, to the panel glowing warmly and invitingly before him, displaying one of the beautiful, lush, Lantean forests. He does not look to Rahd'ni, afraid that this will be the last time he sees his friend ever again. The study in D'ni fades away as the image on the page swells and envelopes the colonel. In an instant, Sheppard the room falls away, and Sheppard finds himself back on Lantea, on the mainland, as though nothing happened. Sheppard sits there, in the moist, warm forest, and allows a single tear to fall, allows five years of grief to swallow him whole.

He composes himself, sighs heavily and reaches for his radio, staggering towards the beach. "Sheppard to Atlantis, come in."

_"Sheppard, this is Lorne." _The familiar voice answers after a moment.

"I need a pick up."

_"I noticed. Anything else, sir?"_

Sheppard stumbles to the soft sand, surveying his splinted leg. "Yeah, you'd better tell Keller I need a house call."

There is a long pause before Lorne calls again. _"And McKay?"_

A sound catches Sheppard's ears, and he turns just in time to see a second figure shimmering into existence where he had stood a moment before. The figure congeals and solidifies, taking a familiar shape. Sheppard finds himself smiling deliriously despite himself as the figure blinks in the bright, radiant sunlight and pulls a set of those fine glasses over his eyes. Rahd'ni. He turns to Sheppard, his face pale and sickly in the summer light.

_"Sheppard, you still there?" _Lorne calls over the radio but goes summarily ignored.

"What made you change your mind?"

Rahd'ni frowns deeply, turning his red, bleary seeming eyes to the sand at his feet. "I can't save D'ni." He inhales deeply, stilling his quivering muscles. "But you said there was people these designs could save."

"Yes," Sheppard breathes uncertainly.

Rahd'ni sighs heavily. "Then, D'ni can wait." At the light in Sheppard's eyes, the unabashed hope, Rahd'ni quickly adds, "For now."

It is not the answer Sheppard wants, but it is a start. A small, tiny, and timid step. The colonel hesitantly extends his hand. It hangs in the air between them, palm up, fingers splayed to show that they are indeed empty and without threat. It is a gesture of peace and of the reconciliation that Sheppard knows they need between them.

_"Sheppard?"_

"You promise I can go home at any time?" the man asks.

Sheppard nods. "Of course."

Rahd'ni gestures with a nod of his head to his knapsack, his voice thick with warning. "I have a linking book back to D'ni if I do not like what I see. So no funny business."

"None," the colonel assures without delay. Rahd'ni nods, his hand moving of its own accord; Sheppard curls his fingers about Rahd'ni's and beams, tapping his radio. "Lorne, he's with me."

_"That's gonna make the doc one happy lady." _Lorne speaks loudly over the radio, loud enough for Rahd'ni to hear. _"Welcome home, Dr. McKay."_

Rahd'ni bristles visibly once more. "We'll see."

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes: **No, I haven't forgotten about _Feast of the Samhain _or _Caliber_. This diddy just kind of bit me in the ass out of the blue last week while I was at school and nowhere near the files for either of those stories. Alas, though, this week is loaded with exams, labs, dissections, and pre-wedding nonsense (*my cousin is getting married, and my mum is very much of the opinion that I "have nothing to wear" despite a closet full of clothes. *sigh* Mothers.)

*crosses fingers* hopefully I shall have new chapters for all three stories in the next two weeks.


	2. Runs in the Ink

**RUNS IN THE INK**

_**From the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_Gitsahth is an unforgiving Age, precisely as I wrote it. I find this Age to have a rugged, untamable beauty to it, a savage world. I spent the better portion of three years crafting this Age to my whims to willfully fashion a world inhospitable for permanent residence, discouraging for any nosy busybodies or Maintainers that might just slip into this Age. I did not, however, chose Gitsahth as our refuge entirely for this reason; I chose it for the sea, cold and viscous, the perfect behavioral correction with little force or effort required to employ it._

_The outsider, Rodney McKay, is far more tractable today after his stay on the East pier. Even now, as I pen this entry, he sits across from me, silently working away. I put him to work early this morning studying the _Rehevkor_ and practicing his written D'ni in his copybook. He is not happy, not at all. In fact, I do believe he rather loathes the drudgery of such tasks. He stews and sulks, even now, but he is holding his tongue well for the moment, the memory of my exacting punishments still fresh at mind._

_This is the last time I shall force him to copy from the _Rehevkor_ out of necessity. His penmanship, though uneven, choppy and appallingly atrocious, seems to have reached its pinnacle, an inherent limitation spurned by his natural and unseemly haste. It was necessary that he be fluent in written D'ni that he comprehend my notations on the subject, but this incessant copying is not necessary anymore. I find it merely occupies his mind while I have other, more pressing matters to attend to. _

_Tomorrow, the true work begins._

xxx

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xxx

Gulls swoop and caw overhead, alighting and skimming easily along on the breeze. They glide along effortlessly and gracefully, seeming to hover atop the updrafts before drifting back down to the sandy dunes only to reeling up once more to the heavens. They bob and slip along like little kites caught on the wind, their feathers shining in bright ivory under the warm, afternoon sun of this world. Rahd'ni raises his hand to shield his eyes and studies the birds as they fly freely over him. He pauses only in his observations briefly to jot a quick note in his journal regarding their behavior and the wind patterns along this strip of creamy sand; it is a deeply engrained habit Rahd'ni cannot so simply curtail.

He shuts this, his newest journal to glance over his shoulder at Sheppard. The man sits perhaps no more than a few yards away upon one of the smooth, warmly baked boulders. Sheppard's splinted leg stretches out before him, but the man hardly seems to care. One hand hovers perpetually at his ear, and he speaks nearly constantly to someone on the other side of the radio. Rahd'ni wonders who before feeling a flush of shame at his prying; it is in exceedingly ill manner to listen in on another's conversation in D'ni and any culture really.

Sheppard notices Rahd'ni attention and calls, "You doing okay over there?"

Rahd'ni gives a curt nod, opens his journal once more and purposely wedges his nose firmly between the pages. He feels awkward and uncomfortable about Sheppard, his hackles raised impossibly. Rahd'ni did not feel this way until he saw the downright gleeful and covetous gleam in Sheppard's eye upon spying Rahd'ni's schematics. The man had seeming genuinely thrilled to see such detailed designs, the story of the lives hanging in balance rather heartfelt. Yet Rahd'ni cannot bring himself so simply and easily trust, and he feels a knot steadily forming in his gut.

"Lorne's almost here. ETA 8 minutes," Sheppard announces almost cheerfully, slapping a hand on his hip. "We'll be home before you know it."

"Home," Rahd'ni whispers timidly to himself, too low for Sheppard to hear, shivering despite the pleasant warmth of this Age.

It does not matter; Sheppard has returned his attention to the radio and misses the minute tremble at the thought of this supposed "home." The word feels devoid of meaning when not referring to the great, wide cavern of D'ni, the only home he has known in the terrifyingly short span of his memory. This world is too bright, too open, too wide. D'ni had been comforting, cloistered, protective, dimly lit by the soothing glow of the lake's bioluminescent algae and shrouded by the perfect, cloudless darkness of the cavern's ceiling.

Sheppard calls once more to Rahd'ni. "Hey." Rahd'ni turns to spot the colonel pointing at the blue skies. "There's Lorne now."

Rahd'ni squints to focus the light but sees nothing. He slips the glasses perched atop his head down, over his eyes, and adjusts the magnification and focus to them. Sure enough a cylindrical object jets through the skies towards them, glistening in the sun with a metallic, sheen somewhere between bronze and gold. _Jumper, no gateship_. His mind easily supplies the name for the nimble little craft. Rahd'ni smiles warmly at the approaching ship, his heart leaping in his throat and trilling happily at the sight. There is something intensely satisfying about seeing the craft cut through the sky and burst through the clouds.

"Pretty cool, isn't it?"

Rahd'ni shrugs it off with the nonchalance granted a Writer well adjusted to crafting Ages of sublime beauty with just the precise combinations of words. "I guess."

Sheppard rolls his eyes but says nothing else as the craft swoops down towards them to land neatly upon the beach. He clambers to his feet unsteadily as the hatch opens to greet Lorne. Out of the corner of Sheppard's eye, he spots Rahd'ni rising to his feet as well, swiftly stuffing his journal into his knapsack. Lorne jumps from the puddlejumper, trotting over to them lightly across the sand. The motion is too sudden, too fast, and Rahd'ni flinches instinctively from it, taking a reflexive step back, his face blanching. Lorne instantly comes to a halt as soon as he sees the surprise and unbridled fright written upon Rahd'ni's features.

The presence of a paper, blue surgical mask across his face does not surprise Sheppard entirely, but Lorne smiles at Rahd'ni broadly and easily beneath the mask, his eyes shining with the expression. "McKay, it's _really_ good to see you again."

Rahd'ni frowns at this newcomer and shifts his weight tensely. His palms go acutely cold and clammy. He rubs them on his pants leg, but the sensation remains, tingling through his skin with uncomfortable chills. Rahd'ni trembles slightly, and he fidgets to attempt to loosen the tension in his muscles. He purposefully keeps his distance as Sheppard draws near to this Lorne and exchanges a few, tense words with the stranger. Lorne nods and totters back to the puddlejumper, his eyes wide with shock, but, as he goes, some of the tightness to Rahd'ni's muscles slips away with him. He turns away, embracing the calm emptiness of the ocean, oddly and infinitely preferring the loneliness of the vast seas and slow, hypnotic and methodically languid curls of the waves to the abrupt and jerking motions of Lorne and Sheppard.

Sheppard's fingertips brush Rahd'ni's shoulder, jolting Rahd'ni from his silent reverie and breathing, "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," Rahd'ni mutters, withdrawing from Sheppard's touch.

"Shall we?" the colonel inquires, gesturing with an overly dramatic sweep of his hand to the open jumper.

Rahd'ni swallows, his stomach clenching once more. This is _supposed _to be easy, simple. Sheppard's presence heralds a home he cannot remember, promising to return the life he has lost. And, yet, it feels like standing before a deep, gaping precipice and preparing to leap right off. The expression on both Lorne's and Sheppard's faces had been that of excitement and relief. Did that make him a good man and a loved friend in his past? Does he have a prior history and fame to live up to? It bothers him, this not knowing. It seems, in retrospect, somehow easier to live without memory and alone in D'ni than to worry about picking up the pieces of a life that still does not feel his own.

Rahd'ni nods and replies, "Yes, of course."

xxx

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xxx

Doctor Jennifer Keller fingers the smooth band of cool metal once more before letting the ring slip through her grasp. It does not fall far. The thin, silver chain about her neck suspends it effortless above her pale skin where the ring has resided for several years now. It is a plain, unadorned thing, simple and crude even by Pegasus standards of craftsmanship, but, to her, it is beyond compare.

A voice crackles over the bud in her ear, tinny and metallic sounding. _"This is Lorne, en route with Sheppard _and_ McKay." _There is a pause. _"Lorne to infirmary."_

Keller's heart skips a beat at the message, but she manages to raise a shaking hand to tap her radio in response. "This is Keller. Go ahead, Lorne."

_"Sheppard busted his leg in a fall and thinks it might be broken."_

Keller nods to herself. "I'll have a team on standby." She holds her breath, reaching down absently to brush the ring about her neck with her fingers before asking, "And Rodney?"

A long silence spans over the radio, too long for Keller's comfort before Lorne answers. _"He seems disoriented and a bit confused to be honest. Sheppard says he's experienced severe long term memory loss." _Keller catches her breath in horror, but Lorne goes on reassuringly, _"Aside from that, he's coherent and looks to be in good health. Just quiet."_

The doctor in Keller is both dually pleased and intrigued. Memory loss is generally indicative of a severe trauma, either physical or psychological. She instantly calculates the various factors that could have caused such an extreme impairment. Simultaneously, that part of her sighs in intense relief. A cognizant patient suggests that damage has stabilized over time and is not necessarily crippling, nor worsening; here is something to be said for such small miracles. The physician is currently and clinically plotting away at all sorts of tests and scans she will order in an attempt to track the source of the amnesia and disorientation to reverse the effects.

Conversely, it is the woman in Keller, the friend and lover who wants nothing more than to curl into a tiny ball in her bed and sob. Rodney McKay had always been a proud, stubborn and self-sure man. She cannot imagine a Rodney without any sense of self or history. McKay had always prided himself at his intellect, his innately eidetic memory, his varied accomplishments. It seems impossibly cruel to for him to have his memories stolen away.

It is, however, the doctor in Keller who wins out and reaches to her radio once more. "We'll be on standby for your arrival."

xxx

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xxx

The jumper ride is quiet and relatively uneventful. Rahd'ni sits in silence in the far aft of the compartment, his head bowed slightly, his body trembling despite the smooth, easy ride of the craft under Lorne's steady command. Sheppard sits across from him, his leg stretched out before him, staring at the tensing man before him. The colonel wants to say something, anything, to reassure Rahd'ni, but he cannot find anything really to say.

Sheppard gazes ahead of them through the window of the cockpit, to the blue expanse of Lantea's wide open skies spread before him invitingly. Lorne skims the jumper just over the water, keeping low and even. In time, a tiny, glittering speck appears on the horizon, steadily growing and taking shape of the elegant, towering spires of Atlantis. Sheppard smiles at the silver gleam of the city as it greets him with a warm hum in the back of his mind.

He nudges Rahd'ni with his toe and nods his head in Atlantis's direction. "Check it out." As the towers span tall on the horizon, Sheppard grins broadly. "Look familiar?"

Rahd'ni sits up slightly, staring out at the shining metal city and smiling distantly, taking in the sight studiously. He feels his heart swell in recognition. This _is _the city he has dreamed of so very often in the dark depths of the silent, dead, D'ni nights. It stands tall and proud, floating over a glittering sea as it always has in his dreams, both catching and reflecting the light of a crisp, summery sun. The city shines both a silvery blue and a burnished gold where the light glints just right, shimmering with an impossibly iridescent splendor in countless colors between the sharp reflections. The metal seems to flow in design, curving here and there at just the right angle, a masterpiece worthy of the admiration of even the greatest of Surveyors, every measured and precise angle an expression of serenity and timeless beauty.

Something tickles at the back of Rahd'ni's mind, fanning out over his consciousness with a familiar and tender warmth. It hums through his nerves, flaring outward with an electric tingle. It is a familiar sensation, bearing with it an uncanny sense of welcome. Rahd'ni's consciousness recoils reflexively from the intrusion, no matter how faint, and feels the presence retreat and dim away, flushed with an impression of hurt.

Sheppard's expression quirks slightly to something akin to disappointment, and he glances to Rahd'ni. "She missed you..."

"She?"

Sheppard turns his gaze downward to his boots, drawing a pregnant breath. "Yeah. We all did."

Rahd'ni frowns at whatever the colonel might be insinuating, but, instead of pressing the issue or fawning over the city as Sheppard expected Rahd'ni to, he merely takes his journal and a stick of charcoal to jot a rough sketch of the city. Sheppard peers over his shoulder and smiles mildly at the artistic skill he never knew Rodney to bear. Rahd'ni finishes quickly, giving pause to add a brief annotation in scrolled D'ni before closing the book once more and stowing it safely away in his knapsack. The stark lack of dramatic overreaction that once typified McKay's behavior unsettles Sheppard, but he refrains from commentary as Lorne calmly sets the jumper down in the bay.

"Dr. Keller has a medical team ready and waiting to take you to quarantine," Lorne states, looking quite pointedly to Sheppard.

The colonel nods and opens rear hatch to the jumper, revealing Dr. Keller accompanied by a quite sizable entourage of medical staff decked out with their own precautionary masks and protective garb. Sheppard only winces visibly initially at the sight of an empty wheelchair awaiting him at Keller's side, forgetting the other man. He has been hobbling about on one leg for some time, and, while his legs ache from the effort, Sheppard is not about to willingly entertain the notion that he cannot make it to the infirmary under his own steam. Keller folds her arms across her chest sternly, as though both reading his mind and preparing for a stand-off on that small matter.

"Face it, you're getting a one way ticket to the infirmary whether you like it or not," the doctor orders mockingly.

Sheppard shrugs, ambling forward on wobbling legs. "Wasn't about to argue it."

The doctor glares playfully, her eyes speaking volumes to exactly how much she believes that statement as Sheppard staggers forward, revealing the man behind him. The doctor's eyes go wide at the sight of Rodney McKay after all these years. So changed, so different, with his long hair, formal clothes, and sturdy cloak. He blanches upon seeing her.

"Rodney?" She whispers his name and takes a step forward, too quickly, perhaps, sending his respiration racing. Keller freezes instantly at the reaction, impulsively touching a hand to the ring upon her neck. "Rodney... do you remember me?"

_Jennifer, nude yet artistically demure, lying out on his bed on her stomach with her hair swept over one shoulder, her body lithe and elegant. The blankets rumpled, gathered up, and held before her decidedly modest but altogether lovely chest. Her long, lanky legs crossed at the ankles like a pin-up model. Her voice husky as she beckoned with a seductive curl of her finger, a come-hither gesture that seems somehow indelibly sinuous coming from her. A geeky joke of a come on that only he could appreciate passes through lips soft and plump from kissing as she smirks devilishly._

_"Face it, Tiger, you just hit the jackpot."_

_She's gotten into his comic stash, and he couldn't be more thrilled._

Rahd'ni swallows hard to force the sudden thickness in his throat down and grips at the memory wildly, but, like dreams upon waking, fist fulls of sand and slippery bars of soap, the harder he grasps at it, the swifter it abandons him. His cheeks flush and burn with embarrassment of the intimacy of the memory, and his head throbs from the effort of clinging so desperately to it. This is the way it always is when he tries to remember too hard. He turns his gaze downward to avoid the pointed stares as he inches back, into the jumper.

Sheppard looks to the man behind him as Rahd'ni begins to shrink back and winces. "Sorry, doc. I should have better warned you." He turns his full attention to Rahd'ni and drops his voice to a croon gently, "Rahd'ni, this is Dr. Keller. You've known her ever since she came to Atlantis."

Rahd'ni nods slowly and appreciatively, sifting through the fragments of what remains from the decidedly inappropriately timed memory flittering through his consciousness. The stranger folds his arms across his chest uncomfortably and presses his lips together tightly. He moves forward with a slow, hesitant shuffle that does not escape Dr. Keller's notice. His reluctancy is a frightfully heavy thing, weighing upon her heart with a crushing weight. His eyes flicker fearfully between the medical officers, jerking towards them at even the barest suggestion of motion. Both the colonel and the doctor stir at the sight of the obvious discomfort.

Sheppard teeters towards Keller, artistically trips, and, when she catches him, leans in to whisper in her ear, "He was alone all this time." Sheppard jerks his head purposefully in the direction of the medical team. "Think we can ditch some of these guys?"

"Good idea."

Keller "helps" Sheppard into the wheelchair and breaks away for just a moment, long enough to give her team their marching orders. She receives raises eyebrows and curious stares for her effort, but, under her sharp glare, the team scurries off to the infirmary to prep the scanner and a barrage of tests for Rodney. With a vaguely satisfied smile, she returns to the wheelchair and takes the handles. Rahd'ni, however, has backed further into the puddlejumper by now, retreating away from the bustle and motion; Keller sighs in relief to know that the team is leaving granted this reaction.

"Rodney?" she calls softly. "Would you come with us?"

The man scrunches his face into a tight, bitter expression; Sheppard frowns deeply and corrects the woman in a low, chiding hiss, "Rahd'ni. He prefers Rahd'ni now."

Keller flinches at the new identity of the man who had once been her lover, a man she hopes is her lover still, lurking beneath these outer layers; she apologizes limply. "I'm sorry, Rahd'ni." She gestures to the corridor. "If you would just follow me."

"Where?" he demands coldly, clutching his knapsack tightly with white knuckles.

Sheppard speaks calmly, slowly, as though to child or spooked horse. "The infirmary, Rahd'ni. Keller just wants to check you out, make sure you're okay."

"I am healthy," Rahd'ni argues, folding his arms indignantly across his chest and sticking his nose in the air proudly. "I've been... tracking my health since the fall." An inscrutable expression mars his features once more, something bordering on remorse and perhaps tinted with anger. "Healthy."

"It's just standard operating procedure around here," Sheppard presses.

Rahd'ni snorts but slowly, reluctantly, complies.

xxx

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xxx

_**From the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_Perfection. I woke the outsider, Rodney McKay, early this morning, a little after third bell. He balked as always but, with just a small measure of pressure, acquiesced quickly to my summons, albeit with a dogged reluctance in his own tiny and willful defiance, dragging his feet as we went. I more than benevolently indulged his childish antics this morning I brought him to my private library. _

_I had already carefully concealed and secured the linking book to Mehtidhsai - the world he was snared from, and, thusly, he posed little threat to me in my own, personal library. He had never been to my library before this morning and, surrounded by so many books, the outsider's mind clearly yearned to taste the information contained therein. He kept his hands to himself, though, like a well mannered little pet, but his eyes were roving, planning, taking notes of whatever supplies and tools I may have carelessly left within reach. I allowed him such study freely, knowing nothing is left out without reason._

_He was hungry; he had not eaten since early yesterday evening. I had Corlam serve a simple breakfast and invited the outsider to sit with me. Rodney McKay ate in silence. I enjoyed my meal and the disquiet brooding in my captive guest._

_After a time, he asked how long it had been, and I answered honestly, seeing no reason to lie at this time. It has been a little over six weeks since he arrived on Mehtidhsai and two weeks since our quite untimely retreat to Gitsahth. It seemed to bother him, this length of time. He went silent again for a time and just lipped at his food. Then, he inquired if I had been back to Mehtidhsai and the Age he had originally come from since his acquisition. Again, I saw no reason to lie and admitted that I had, in fact, returned to that Age - one which I had dubbed Irvan. _

_Rodney McKay fumbled over the next question, wishing to know if I had seen anything unusual upon that Age. When I told him simple that I had not, he went quiet once more. I explained quite carefully that Irvan had been a temporary foothold for me, nothing more, with little technical value, illustrating just how minute of notice the Maintainers would have given to that pathetic little rock. He said nothing more, but I went on, knowing the answer he wanted. I told him that no, there had been no other visitors like him, no other outsiders in my visits to Irvan._

_[the encrypted cypher to A'Gaeris's personal journal switches here. It is not unusual, for A'Gaeris rotates cyphers every entry, but to change mid-entry is indeed odd. It changes to a more complex pattern]_

_In short, I lied. _

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Rahd'ni shivers to himself and rubs his arms in self comfort, desperately trying to will the tightly coiled tension from his muscles. This place is cold and antiseptic, nothing like the warm comfort of the Guild of Healers and their vast, mellow halls. The air bears a caustic quick to it, along with the damp saltiness of the sea. Light filters through paneled windows in jagged shards of color in place of the many, gently glowing fire marbles that had illuminated the Guild House and the halls of have seated him upon a mildly comfortable pallet that he could only charitably consider a bed covered in a coarse material that itches the skin, a far cry from the soft, spongy layers of downy duvets to the Healers' great infirmary.

And, yet, it is somehow familiar, like the watery memory of a dream faded by the light of dawn.

They have left him to himself in a small, somewhat octagonal room with the solitary, uncomfortable thing he sat upon centered in the middle. He does not cast his gaze upwards. He knows without looking that there is a second level beyond the confines of this room that peers through glass windows down and at him. Rahd'ni does not wish to see them staring at him as a foreign curio, despite the fact that he knows that is what he is. They have left him for some time now. perhaps hours even, but it does not bother him. Only the knowledge that they watch, even now, unsettles him.

Finally, the door eases open, and it is Keller who enters, accompanied by another, slender woman. A nurse. The doctor carries a tray filled with tools, thing Rahd'ni now recognizes they likely thought he might have used as a weapon. They approach slowly, cautiously, as though entreating with a cornered predator, their fear radiating and pulsing upon him. Rahd'ni's heart trills in answer.

"Hello, Rahd'ni." There is an unease to her voice, a quiver, even as she rather stoically gathers her tools. "I just want to give you a quick physical." Keller's eyes settle upon the knapsack held tight in his hands. "We need to examine and catalogue any foreign items."

Rahd'ni understands through her diplomatic wording and clutches the knapsack tighter to him, curling over it protectively. He shakes his head once, a curt gesture. His fingers grip sharply, the knuckles turning white under the pressure.

"We have to be sure whatever you've got in there is safe," Keller assures in a chiding tone, reaching slowly. "It's for everyone's safety."

"No," Rahd'ni forces out through clenched teeth.

The doctor recoils as though struck, her cheeks flushing hotly, but a voice calls from behind her. "What if I just looked through it?" Sheppard; he sits in a wheelchair at the door frame, his leg propped up by raised footrest. "Just me."

Rahd'ni flinches at the thought and gives a toss of his head once more. Sheppard merely wants his greedy, grubby hands on the designs for the.... the whatever it is that Rahd'ni is designing. ZPM, Sheppard had called it. Zero point module. His mind reels over the possibilities of the unimaginable power he knows the device will contain when his vision is fully realized. The power to split stars, dance across the far reaches of the universe, and even lift cities from the ocean's crushing depths. No, he will not so easily turn his journal over to Sheppard's covetous hands, hands that reach, and beg, and remind so much of something that has slipped away from Rahd'ni's memory.

Sheppard does not argue the point and merely nods, suggesting, "What if someone else were to look through it? Catalogue everything right here in front of you and return it to you?" The colonel glances to the doctor. "Would that be alright?"

"Of course," Keller quickly answers.

Sheppard returns his attention to Rahd'ni, watching those hands carefully that they do not slip into the pack and to the linking book he knows is contained. "Rahd'ni?"

Rahd'ni shrugs his shoulders wearily and concedes in a breath, "Alright."

He looks to the floor for a moment, considering the options presented to him before calling the only name to his fragmented and scattered identity that seems familiar and trustworthy. Who could he call? This place and these faces may be familiar, but there are little to no substantial memories to attach.

_"Yes." Radek, furious, his face practically beet red, trembling in annoyance and perhaps fear. "I made a mistake trying to save your life! Now, do you want me to try and fix it, or do you want to continue to berate me some more?"_

_Words, spilling smugly from his own lips. "I am perfectly capable of doing both at the same time."_

The name falls numbly from his lips. "Radek."

"Sure," Sheppard gives a slow and easy nod before reaching to tap his radio. "Zelenka..... you're needed in the infirmary." He looks to Rahd'ni and flashes a wide, warm and cocky smile. "See? That wasn't so hard."

But it was so very hard, and Rahd'ni cannot be certain why entirely it requires such an effort to concede so willingly even if it is so very grudgingly. Sheppard sees it, though, as does Keller, and Woolsey, watching from on high in the observation room above isolation. It is screamed in the tightness to Rahd'ni's carriage, in the measured caution to the man's expression, and in the stark pallor to his face. Sheppard is not as close as Keller, and, thus, only she sees the pulsing tremble of his carotid artery pumping furiously as his body floods with adrenaline. He does not trust them, not in the slightest, and this grave distrust breaks each of their hearts.

Fortunately, none of the four spend much time in silence, as Radek Zelenka quickly arrives at the infirmary. The wiry Czech appears nervous and rather frazzled, his face slicked with sweat and his breaths panted. He has run to the infirmary in elation at Sheppard's call, having already heard the news of McKay's return. The Czech has expected, nay, hoped, that Rodney would return after all these years. CSO is not nearly the glamorous and enviable job that McKay had often made it seem to be, and the labs have been dreadfully silent without their playful verbal sparring - no matter how bitter and vicious it may have sounded to the average outsider.

Zelenka grins, but his expression instantly caves upon setting his eyes upon this much changed McKay, leaving him sadly sobered. "Ah. Sorry to keep you waiting."

"It's alright, Zelenka. Rahd'ni, you obviously remember Radek," Sheppard mentions for the sake of propriety. "Radek, Rahd'ni."

An immediate red flag raises in Zelenka's mind. The Czech blanches slightly at this alien name but forces it back under the colonel's stern gaze. He is not here to question, to assume, or to judge. He has been called here for a specific reason judging by Sheppard's knowing expression. Radek files the name quickly in the back of his consciousness, mindful to ask Sheppard of it later.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Radek teases, extending a hand for Rahd'ni to shake.

Curiously, Rahd'ni stands to his full height, holding himself ramrod straight and setting his shoulders back. He does not take the Czech by the palm but, instead, by the wrist. It is a formal greeting, one of mutual respect and one that raises several eyebrows. Radek glances curiously about to Sheppard for explanation but the colonel gives a tired shrug. When Rahd'ni looses his grip and sits once more on the gurney, Radek looks to his empty hand and feels the warmth of Rahd'ni hold leeching away in the chilled air of isolation.

"Right. Colonel, you said I was needed?"

Sheppard nods. "Rahd'ni's things. We need them catalogued and returned to him. Well, everything that's not world-endingly dangerous." When the Czech shakes his head with an unspoken question, Sheppard sighs. "He asked for you."

Radek nods and holds out his hands to Rahd'ni. For a painfully drawn moment, Rahd'ni holds tight to the knapsack, but, then, he relents once more and places the sack in the Czech's waiting hands. Zelenka allows a tiny, comforting smile before taking his place on the other side of the room and pulling up a steel rolling table. He is not certain why Rahd'ni asked for him, but the scientist will be sure that he will not foolishly shatter whatever limited trust lingers in the man. He will examine everything quickly and carefully in plain sight; Rahd'ni sees this over Keller's shoulder as the doctor swoops in and appreciates it immensely even though he offers no words of thanks.

Keller begins slowly and carefully, explaining herself as she does and jotting down quick notes. Rahd'ni nods and breathes deeply, but shuddering upon exhaling. He is nervous, frightened, perhaps terrified even. She hardly needs her instruments to know his pulse, blood pressure, and respiration have all increased dramatically over the course of but a few moments. She still takes those basic vitals though, and records their measure. Rahd'ni's lungs sound quite clear, despite his insistence that whatever plague he might carry and whatever wiped out D'ni had a distinctive effect upon the respiratory system not unlike influenza and eventually pneumonia. He stares beyond her and to Radek defiantly as she checks his eyes, ears, throat, and glands. He is the picture of health externally, something unusual for Rodney.

Rahd'ni hardly notices. His eyes are upon Radek as the Czech carefully paws through the contents of his knapsack, murmuring in a strange language as he does. Slowly, the scientist places the contents of the bag upon the steel table, one item at a time. The blue glass pot of ink, adorned with delicate whorls of creamy white in a lacy pattern that the Artisans created with Rahd'ni specifically in mind, a gift of Lord Eneah of the Maintainers. A series of quill pens, simple and perfunctory in design, clearly meant for function over form. Protective lenses. A small, pack lunch. A small pouch containing a few dozen fire marbles. A leather bound journal. His map of the city, sheathed in a protective polymer and covered in marks denoting the various points of damage from the quakes. Rahd'ni can see the Czech attempt to figure the scale for a moment before frowning and setting it aside. The linking book joins it shortly, over a brief, silent exchange between Sheppard and Zelenka.

Radek pauses long enough to take the journal carefully in his hands and impulsively thumb through it. The beautiful, curled script of the D'ni, penned in Rahd'ni's own hand, covers each and every page, filling just about every scrap of space not occupied by detailed drawings and schematics. There are lengthy equations here and there, a jumbled mess of both English calculations and what seems to be D'ni mathematics, as well as Ancient. Zelenka freezes when a familiar image crosses his vision. A ZPM. He blinks in appreciation of the complexity to the designs, the detailed layers of understanding and documentation to the device. Zelenka nods in appreciation before easing the journal gently shut and setting it down with a deserved air of reverence. McKay has done the impossible; he has cracked the ZPM.

Radek reaches deep inside the sack and yelps, jerking his hand out and holding a reddened index finger. A slew of what must be Czech profanities issue forth from the otherwise meek scientist as he grabs the bag again, roughly, and opens it to peer inside. A pair of eyes sparkle back at him, and Radek jumps in fright, garnering a tiny squeak from Keller as well.

Rahd'ni, however, walks quite calmly to the knapsack, reaches in, and pulls the tiny, kittenish Jeruth from the bag, displaying her proudly and lovingly. "It's _just _a harmless little reekoo." The voice is one of indignation, the same sort of way a childish petulance that earmarked so many conversations with Rodney McKay. The harshness melts away for him to murmur at the creature. "Shh.... shh." Jeruth calms and scrambles up Rahd'ni's chest taking up residence at the top of his shoulders and curling about his neck; he strokes her fur and smiles. "She's alright. Continue."

Keller cocks her head at the cat-like creature. "Of course..."

In time, as Keller continues on with her medical study of Rahd'ni, Radek finishes his survey of the sack's contents and replaces them one by one with a delicate reverence. He saves the linking book for last, raising a questioning eyebrow to Sheppard. The colonel nods and makes a small, placating gesture. Radek understands and replaces the linking book with the rest of the items.

Part way through the exam, Keller elects to draw a blood sample. She gently turns his arm to swab the site on the inside of his elbow and pauses in concern, noting the faint patterning of scars upon Rahd'ni's palms. The scars shine smoothly under the light, puckering at the edges in a way that turns the doctor's generally steady stomach. She turns his other hand and finds more markings there. These are burn scars, old and faded to a milky white.

"Rod- Rahd'ni," she corrects herself softly. "How did you get these scars?"

"I don't know," the man mutters in evasion, pulling his hands back and folding his arms across his chest, stuffing his hands under his armpits and well out of sight.

It is only a half-lie. Rahd'ni remembers. He had put his hands in the fire himself. He remembers the lick of the flames upon his palms, the searing agony of the fire on his skin. He remembers the scent of his own flesh burning, a sickly scent that still occasionally tears him from his sleep to vomit up whatever is in his stomach. He still hear the crackle of the fire upon the hearth and the roar of a triumphant and boisterous laugh behind him. Rahd'ni still feels the charred pages of parchment between his fingers flake apart to blackened ashes and nothing. He can still see the chips of ebony sticking to his scorched and oozing hands. He recalls the ghastly, anguished howl that escaped his own lips, a mindless, brutal sound of profound grief and impossible suffering swallowing him whole. There is, however, no context to this memory that is so perfectly painted in his mind.

Keller, quite fortunately, does not question the burn scars and takes this as her perfect opportunity to question the amnesia symptoms. "What _do _you remember, Rahd'ni? What is the very last thing you remember."

"D'ni," he responds sourly. "The Guild House. I was hurt."

"A head injury?" the doctor suggests, lifting an eyebrow.

"Among other things," Rahd'ni sniffs before going flustering and fidgeting about. "The Healers said I was lucky to live, that the memory loss may have been a _blessing_." He sniffs hotly and quickly adds with disdain, "Quacks. All of them."

"Anything before that?" she presses, her medical mind engaging now.

Rahd'ni thinks for a moments and shrugs heavily. "Small things." His hand slips out, with a faint, fluttering motion, a quiver of his fingers. "Flashes every now and then, but nothing much. Nothing substantial to outweigh..." He looks down and shakes his head limply. "I get headaches from trying too hard to remember."

Keller purses her lips together in concern and to squeeze back the question burning at the tip of her tongue. Does he remember her? Oh, god, she wishes he remembers her. She wants to ask and know, to be certain, but he startles so easily, shies so quickly. Keller worries that, if she forces too hard, pushes too aggressively, he'll retreat away. She holds her tongue for a long moment, perhaps too long.

When he suddenly looks up to meet her gaze, Keller flushes and blurts out, "I'd like to do a full scan." Rahd'ni's eyes fill with fear, and she places a hand upon his tenderly, whispering, "It's nothing, really. Standard operating procedure."

Rahd'ni groans inwardly, wondering if this SOP is just a smoke screen for these people to hide behind.

Keller must see the disbelief written in his features as she leans close. "I just want to rule out any head trauma that may be causing your amnesia. I'd like to see there is anything we can do to possibly reverse the effects and restore your memory. It won't hurt, I promise."

Rahd'ni is already exhausted, annoyed, and worn raw from the trip. However, he keeps this to himself and allows the various scans and tests for Keller, accompanied by Jeruth the entire time. As much as she says she wants to know, Rahd'ni is certain he desires it more. He nods with his consent.

xxx

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xxx

_**From the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_I had linked to Irvan once after the outsider fell into my snare, just to ensure that we have no other unwelcome guests and to ensure the destruction of the linking book to Mehtidhsai. I must be cautious, for I have not waited all these years for my opportunity to squander it so foolishly for the fault of an outsider. When I linked to Irvan, I saw things beyond my wildest machinations. Great flying contraptions, descending from the heavens with grace and ease. Men bearing weapons the likes of which I have never seen. It was simultaneously both the most incredible and the most frightening sight of my life._

_I immediately set the cask of acid, held the linking book over it, and linked back to Mehtidsai, well assured from time and trial that there would be nothing left of the linking book by the time the travelers reached it. _

_However, Rodney McKay can never know this. He has been lulling in a mild depression. This is excellent. I need push and prod it further, melding him to my needs now. Oh, yes, I am indeed aware that the outsider continues to plot and scheme even to this day behind his mask of sorrow, but this effective stroke of implication that no one is looking for him is all the miniscule effort required to severe that small glimmer of hope and push him further into the despair necessary to keep him pliant. _

_It works accordingly, and I know the outsider will wallow for several days in his own grief and sense of abandonment. However, I know that he is a stubborn one, that his mind is a keen one and that he will not stop attempting, pushing. I shall continue his "tutelage" with the _Rehevkor _now if only to instill a sense of pattern and comfort in the predictability of my place. The doldrums of this activity is necessary, to allow his mind to stretch and reach to impossible limits of questioning and worry. He shall continue to plot even through this, but, now that he feels cut off from those who might have sought him out, he will turn to me, in his own time. I am, after all, the only person he has to turn to in my Age. He will see me a tool for his usage, and I shall indulgently allow this illusion. _

_I could see upon this, my great revelation that the outsider was fighting disbelief and tears and, so, took my leave of him to allow him the small comfort of privacy for his sorrows. He will come to me, eventually, and I will be waiting patiently. His intellect and the myriad of secrets he holds therein are worth the wait, however long it may take. Am I not D'ni? Are the D'ni anything but a patient race?_

_As eternal as the rock into which we bore, I shall wait._

xxx

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xxx

The one thing that John Sheppard absolutely loathes about casts is the weight. Over his life and his sundry lists of injuries, he has sorted out various solutions for the dreaded itch-you-can't-reach scenario; he already has the exact hanger he will bend and shape into the perfect hook in mind to solve that little problem when it inevitably arises. Dragging about the additional weight of the cast, however, is not something he can so simply fix. It is awkward and cumbersome, sending him off balance. Normally, Sheppard would grit his teeth and bear it, but, this once, he opts for the wheelchair, for now, mindful that this meeting is far too important to be worrying about hauling about an extra few pounds on his ankle.

Keller is droning on and on in boring physician's terms, placing up slide after slide of views into Rahd'ni's head from a variety of angles and through several different filters. X-rays, cat scans, MRIs, everything. Woolsey appears quite interested, while Teyla wears a face of intense concern. Ronon, on the other hand, seems just as confused by all this as Sheppard. Keller maintains a brittle mask, hiding behind her medical vocabulary to avoid facing the stark truth of the matter as they consult her about Rahd'ni's condition while he remains unaware in the isolation unit of the infirmary.

Finally, in irritation, Sheppard growls, "Would you cut to the chase, doc?"

Keller blinks in surprise at the abrupt interruption but stills herself quickly and swallows. "There are clears signs of a traumatic brain injury." She points to a spot on one of the slides. "See, here?" Sheppard nods like he actually sees whatever the doctor is pointing to, and Keller goes on. "Scar tissue suggests a cranial fracture."

"Bottom line?" Ronon asks sternly, his voice rumbling deeply.

"The bottom line is...." Keller draws a deep breath at that juncture, both her benefit and for those about the table. "The bottom line is that there just is no bottom line. Brain injuries are unpredictable at best. He has healed, physically, yes, but his brain is still working to reconstruct the mental pathways that were once there. He might eventually regain all of his memory, or next to none of it."

"What kind of a timeframe?" Woolsey inquires, always the cold, calculating businessman and scientist of the bunch.

Keller shrugs and shakes her head miserably. "There is no precise recovery timeframe for head injuries."

"Rahd'ni said he had been in D'ni for five years," Sheppard breathes flatly, toying listlessly at the fresh, professional rounded edge of his cast.

"All the more reason to believe that..." Keller gives a soft, muffled sniffle, her fingers subconsciously reaching for the metal band about her neck. "That his condition is an extremely old one that has stabilized and that, if he hasn't regained the vast majority of his memory by now, the damage might be permanent. Rodney may never regain all of his memory."

Woolsey sighs and pinches at his sinuses. "Anything else I should be aware of?"

Sheppard does not wish to say anything, preferring to play it close to the chest, yet Radek pipes up, raising his hand and waggling his finger slightly. "Actually, yes." He looks to Sheppard, who shrugs, before announcing, "In his book, it seems Rodney has devised a means of producing _charged _ZPMs."

"Impossible," Woolsey breathes in shock, his heart stuttering for a moment.

"Completely possible," Sheppard snaps back, rolling his eyes. "Oh, c'mon. You honestly believe in books that take you to random places when you touch them, but you can't bring yourself to believe a genius like Rodney McKay could crack ZPM technology after five years of nothing else to do with his time?"

Woolsey shakes his head. "It's.... it's just unbelievable..." He looks to Zelenka. "Is it safe?"

"That the only reason you glad to see McKay back?" Sheppard grumbles from his place darkly.

"I assure you, it's not," Woolsey argues flatly. "Don't misunderstand me. I'm thrilled that you've brought McKay back, but surely you of all people can grasp the implications of this, Colonel. You have been on more wild ZPM chases than any other member of the expedition. A means of sustainable ZPM manufacture means a secure Pegasus once more, and an end to the Wraith in time." When Sheppard says nothing, Woolsey scowls. "I have to think of the big picture."

"I know." Sheppard goes rigid and tense in his chair. "It's just not so simple," Sheppard answers while staring down the cast on his leg before shaking his head. "Rodney doesn't trust us. He's not going to just _give _us the designs, especially if it looks like that's all we want from him."

Radek nods, chiming in, "Even if he did, the designs are in a mix of the same language as the book and English. I cannot decipher."

Woolsey turns to Jackson, who shrugs and shakes his head. "Oh.... no. Don't look at me. I'm still working on the _first _book you gave me. D'ni is a much more subtle written language than originally thought, and nothing like anything from Pegasus or the Milky Way. It could take months to establish a complete lexicon of even common vocabulary and grammar for D'ni, let alone build an understanding of something as complex as ZPM fabrication."

"Looks like it's all on Rodney.... again." Sheppard smirks at Ronon at his side and points accusingly. "Don't you dare tell him I said that."

xxx

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xxx

A whisper in the back of his mind. A mental tickle flaring at the base of his skull. A soft, electric embrace across his nerve endings. Quiet, hushed humming singing through his veins. These are the tiny fragments of disjointed synesthaesia that gently nudge Rahd'ni awake from an uncomfortable slumber in the the tiny room with a faintly pulsating, electric vibration coursing through his nerves and singing down his spinal column until rousing him to full alertness. He rubs the bleariness from his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the stiff gurney perhaps a split second before the doors to the isolation unit hiss open to allow entry for Dr. Keller. Rahd'ni finds himself instantly quite appreciative for the advance warning, feeling a returning swell of warmth radiating about him from nothingness in what approximates a vague sensation of gratitude.

Dr. Keller glances over her shoulder at Rahd'ni with a graceful, elegant motion, sweeping her serene, chocolate brown eyes over him for a moment. Rahd'ni's breath catches at the sight of those eyes of hers, staring at him from the scattered fragments of his shattered reality. His heart hammers in his chest, drumming against his ribs. The blood rushes to his cheeks in a hot, searing flush. Keller smirks coyly, but Rahd'ni turns his head away in shame, turning to take his journal and bury his nose between the mellow, leather cover and the delicate, vellum pages adorned with his own script.

On the occasion of a lovely, early spring visit to the Age of Gemedet, his hostess, Lady Ti'ana had inquired if Rahd'ni had ever had a lover, a consort or female companion. When he admitted to the vague dreams and flashes of memory of a woman, Lady Ti'ana had apparently quite often entertained the notion that Rahd'ni might be.... _happier _with a woman. Lady Ti'ana had once been an outsider to D'ni, the first in many centuries. The noblewoman had confided that, while she thought of herself as a highly adaptive person, were it not for the love and friendship of her husband, Aitrus, she might not have survived in the dour, subterranean realm of D'ni, let alone thrived as she had. Rahd'ni had grudgingly indulged the silly notion with a few downright laughable failures of attempted D'ni courtship before Lady Ti'ana acknowledged what a lost cause it truly was to wage war against the ghostly woman of Rahd'ni's past who still held such sway over him.

And, yet, curious as he is, Rahd'ni cannot face her by his lonesome, not yet. He focuses instead on his journal, turning to the page of his initial rough sketch of the city. It is a crude drawing that needs further fleshing and annotation, and, yet, he feels an intimate knowledge of this place and its mechanics humming in the back of his mind, threading throughout his thoughts in murmured undercurrent. It is remarkably like staring at a drawing or photograph of a lover after a long time apart. The tingle of nostalgia, the sweet yearning for times past, swallowing him whole. As Keller continues to fiddle with something to the side, Rahd'ni takes a quill and his pot of ink from his knapsack to add a few quick notes to the side of the drawing and distract his mind.

_Nekisahl_. He rather pointedly places this word beside one of the towers to the very tip. It is a communications device, meant for picking up distant signals. A long range sensor, he corrects himself. Yet his annotation is a cruel truth. "Bent, twisted, distorted," that is was _nekisahl _means in D'ni. It is not by much, perhaps 500 torans - 3 degrees - at the utmost, yet it will produce slightly faulty data. He marks the tower in question with the proposed measurement of error. It is likely damage from ancient material stressed by centuries of exposure to the elements, yet instead of replacing it, the tower merely needs a minute calculation adjustment in the base operating programming of the sensor array to account for any error. Rahd'ni frowns at his instinctive and intimate knowledge of this place to be aware of such a minute problem and its natural solution, flowing out simply through his hands.

Something clatters on the doctor's table, jerking Rahd'ni's gaze up to her. She has merely dropped a syringe, hardly noticing his gaze, yet Keller snares his attention once more. She is beautiful, exquisite, really. Her figure... her face... the creamy pale color to her skin, and the soft, pert pink of her lips. He licks his own lips, feeling the shiver of a memory of her tough tingling across them. His pen flicks across the page, unbidden. It is only when the door opens once more for Sheppard in his wheelchair and a few strangers to enter that Rahd'ni forces his head back into the journal and spies what he has scrawled upon the page.

_Gormeht kehn tomeht biv roo miruh. Tsahn botaigahn shehm, oyn mor'okh'mor, Jennifer._

He blushes harder now and slams the journal shut, pushing it aside before anyone can see what he has written there. The D'ni written language is a an extremely complex yet subtle script, crafted by tiny nuances to the curled, filigree strokes and almost imperceptible punctuation hidden between letters. It is highly unlikely that these people can even grasp basic sentence structure, let alone the schematic notations the statement is hidden among, yet Rahd'ni cannot help it, his cheeks burning now.

A tall, reedy man with thinly frames glasses and a smooth, bald held that gleams as though polished coughs to both clear his throat and passive aggressively demand attention from both Rahd'ni and the strangers before going ramrod straight and greeting formally, "Dr. McKay." The facade of a widely forced smile plastered to his face falters ever so slightly as the man stumbles. "Excuse me. I understand you prefer to be called Rahd'ni. Is this correct?"

Rahd'ni rises fully at the sound of his name with a tremble of fear quivering down his spine, standing at full height and extending a hand formally to this supposed emissary of the newcomers. "Yes."

The stranger holds out his hand as well, palm open and presented in welcome. "Dr. Richard Woolsey."

Woolsey commands authority with the same cold, dry distance and placid, unflappable composure of the senior Guilds Masters and elder members of the Council. Rahd'ni swallows, his mouth going acutely parched and cottony in this man's presence. It requires some force, but Rahd'ni wills himself to still his shaking hand long enough to close the distance between them and grasp Woolsey's wrist in salutation and the respect that seems due. Woolsey raises an eyebrow to this but says nothing to the negative, even showing not a single hint of distaste at how embarrassingly sweat slicked Rahd'ni's palm has become. Instead, Woolsey reciprocates the gesture in earnest, curling his fingers about Rahd'ni's slender wrist gingerly for but a moment's hesitation before gripping securely yet warmly.

"Rahd'ni, I'd like to welcome you home," Woolsey announces, still gently cradling Rahd'ni's wrist.

A sliver of doubt in Rahd'ni's mind reminds him that D'ni is his home, and, as a result, he withdraws his hand, feeling his wrist still buzzing from the contact. Yet the humming of the city about his shushes this thought instantly. The alien sensation drowns out his fleeting mental quibble with a rush of radiant warmth, enfolding him in a comfortable, easy embrace that simply fits.

"I'd like to reintroduce you to Teyla Emmagen and Ronon Dex," Woolsey states, gesturing to the muscle bound man and lithe woman behind him. The bald man draws a deep, contemplative breath, clearly preparing to broach potentially awkward and dangerous subject matter. "Dr. Keller has already apprised us of your... condition."

"Condition?" Rahd'ni gulps fearfully as his mind reels; he looks to Keller, his face blanching upon realizing what the man speaks of.

"You're free of any signs of viral or bacterial infection." Dr. Keller sighs heavily, looking down to her feet. "But as to your memory.... I'm sorry, Rahd'ni, but you've sustained a serious head injury. The damage might be permanent."

"No..." the whisper slips from Rahd'ni's lips, escaping in a gasped breath.

Keller goes on, presenting him with data and images that barely register to Rahd'ni until the dark gloom engulfs him, dragging him down so deep that even the other presence in his mind cannot draw him back. Rahd'ni stumbles back against the gurney, nearly stumbling In a flash, a hulking man with a dark, knotted mane and a strong woman with feral eyes and skin the color of burnished copper are at his side. Ronon and Teyla. In a heartbeat, there are hands upon him, the tender hands of strangers, but he is too numb to feel the fear he knows lingers there, to feel anything as these people handle him gently. They manipulate his pliant body to help his sit upon the edge of the bed as Rahd'ni flounders desperately in the horrific gloom of this revelation juxtaposed so terribly against the backdrop of a sensation so achingly familiar of these people circling about him, protecting him, helping him.... _caring _for him? Rahd'ni wants so very badly to cry, to pour his emotions out in lurching sobs, yet such conduct is entirely unbecoming of a guildsman and quite unproductive for the effort expended.

Dr. Woolsey allows him a few moments to calm and still his heart, to swallow his sorrows before addressing the man once more. "Rahd'ni, I'm very sorry about this."

The man lifts his head ever so slightly, just enough to face Woolsey with some small measure of self-respect; he listlessly mutters, "It is not of your doing. It was not your fault."

Woolsey's lip twitches in a tiny smile. "I have been the leader of this expedition for some time, Rahd'ni, since before your disappearance. The safety of each and every member of this expedition is my personal responsibility, and, as such, I am inclined to believe something quite the contrary." Woolsey gives a quick nod. "Rahd'ni, I don't want you to think we are pressuring you into anything, but you have several options before you. You may return to D'ni if you truly wish. We..." Woolsey dares a glance at Sheppard, Ronon, and Teyla, each of them holding their breaths. "We will not stop you if that is what you want. Or, you may stay here, on Atlantis, and we can attempt to help you piece things together, share with you what your life was."

"Was?" Rahd'ni sniffs, curling with lip and accompanying the word with a distinctive and unmistakably "Rodney" air of indignation. "You say that like..... it's over, just like that."

Sheppard winces, but Woolsey, ever the diplomat, tactfully continues. "I'm sorry. I obviously did not mean it in that sense." He swallows and toys with his hands in a noncommittal stall to gather his thoughts and focus them constructively; it is a mannerism Sheppard recognizes from Elizabeth as preparation to delicately tip what may be too much information. "Rahd'ni, you were an integral member of our staff as both Chief Sciences Officer and as a field expert in Ancient technology. In your extended absence, the position has been filled."

John rolls his eyes and suppresses a snort. It is fairly common knowledge on Atlantis that, while the position is filled, it is neither happily nor voluntarily occupied, by none other than Radek Zelenka. The job is difficult and exceedingly stressful, and rather thankless. Now, the Czech is frayed and haggard from work, with fine lines cropping up here and there on the scientist's face from more than simply aging. Sheppard knows, given even the slightest inkling of Rodney's return to work, Radek would _gladly _hand the job over in a heartbeat to escape another moment of the misery that Rodney had adored so greatly.

"Understandably, we did not do this to replace _you_, but merely to facilitate in the ongoing functioning and security of the city as well as the expedition," Woolsey continues.

It is quite obviously an attempt at both clarification for Rahd'ni and placating for the members of the team. It fails miserably in Sheppard and _just _as equally with Keller and Ronon, if looks are any indication. Radek had never said anything, but Sheppard has always secretly suspected the Czech would agree as well. Woolsey's endorsement of Radek had been too enthusiastic for most people's tastes. Teyla had made the mistake of rationally arguing to Woolsey's defense, stating quite calmly and logically that it had been a necessary measure, but even that had admittedly been a half-hearted attempt at easing her own uneasy conscience.

Rahd'ni looks to Sheppard questioningly. "Why did you bring me here, then?"

"I thought you'd want.... I mean, we all wanted you to come home." Sheppard blinks, surprised at how tight his throat constricts about the words. "We... we missed you."

Rahd'ni is quiet, staring down at the floor limply as he speaks in a hushed voice just a shade above a whisper, "There's a catch."

"No catch," Sheppard answers, shaking his head.

"There's always a catch," Rahd'ni argues, his features pinching into a tight frown as he sits still for but an instant. Then, he launches into motion, springing off the gurney and pacing madly along the far side of the room. "There's _always _a catch." Rahd'ni waves his hands wildly in the air. "A wrench in the system, an unaccounted for variable. Something."

"Rahd'ni," Teyla speaks softly, her words as sweet as honey. "We were merely attempting to extend our welcome home. We have missed you."

"No," Rahd'ni snaps suddenly, running his fingers roughly through his hair. "No. It's not that simple is it?" He jerks his head to Sheppard, his eyes narrowing. "You.... you told them about_ it_..... didn't you?" Rahd'ni jabs a finger at the wheelchair bound colonel. "You did, didn't you?" When Sheppard swallows hard but fails to answer, Rahd'ni's face falls, going quite ashen. "You did."

"Rahd'ni...." Sheppard breathes hesitantly.

Rahd'ni trembles, his legs shaking visibly as he sinks to the ground, wraps his arms about his legs and rocks on the balls of his heels, cowering in a tiny ball and muttering, "Of course you did."

"Rahd'ni.... I didn't..." Sheppard whispers timidly, struggling to keep his tone even and non-threatening. "Radek saw the journal too. He knew what was in it." Rahd'ni tightens at the though. "He had to tell Woolsey."

What Rahd'ni says next is so quiet that it is lost; Woolsey cranes his head towards the crouching man. "Hmm?"

He repeats, low and sullen, resigned to this in a way that breaks Keller's heart just a little more. "What do you want?"

"Rod-Rahd'ni..." Keller croons, edging closer onto to have her once lover slip further back into a corner. "We don't want anything."

"Everyone wants _something_," Rahd'ni snarls bitterly from his place curled up on the floor. "Especially for that..... that whatever it is. Just spill it so we can move on from the pointless, insincere platitudes and right on to the part where I tell you 'no' and you..." Rahd'ni shudders, trembling like a leaf upon the wind. "Just get it over with."

Sheppard blinks, dumbfounded. "You don't know?" He laughs, a chortle that startles everyone in the room, especially Rahd'ni; then, abruptly, Sheppard stills, flushing in shame along with everyone else in the room. "No. No, you might not know what's at stake." He looks to Woolsey uncertainly. "Sir, if I may?"

Woolsey nods solemnly. "Of course."

The colonel smiles in commiseration at the frightened, angry stranger, and holds out a hand. "C'mon, Rahd'ni."

"Where?" the man growls, a wolf cornered.

"I've got something to show you."

xxx

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_**From the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_He is quiet, my pet Rodney McKay, sullen. He has been for days, weeks now. I have been so kind as to allow him private quarters, where he spends much of his days sulking in silence. My compatriot, Veovis, informs me that I am far too indulgent with the outsider who remains so defiant to my wishes. _

_Today, however, I summoned Rodney McKay to my quarters. He was quiet and cautious, polite to a fault even by D'ni standards. There was a nervousness to his eyes that was not there before. I rather prefer him so flighty and unhinged compared to his generally abrasive, cocky attitude. He sat across from me still and silent, waiting for me to address him. He wanted something, precisely as I had predicted. To test his resolve to this course, I did not address him nor even acknowledge his presence for the better part of an hour. Instead, I flippantly ignored him and continued to pen in the copybooks for my latest of Ages. Like the penitent little whelp he should be, Rodney McKay held his tongue and waited, although it did wear on him to the end of the span, I could tell._

_When I felt he his resolve and nerves had been surely tested and only then, did I deign to acknowledge him. It began quite simply as a quiet interview over tea. Who he is, where he came from, what was his occupation. His responses were tight-lipped as to be expected from a captive, yet honest. A scientist, and scholar, expert in various forms of astronomical studies from a planet far and away. I must admit, he has me intrigued. A scholar of a race capable of such unique creations is surely an astonishing treasure to have stumbled across so easily._

_I inquired as to how he came to my humble little Age of Irvan, and he stumbled through an attempt to explain some sort of transportation device before quite pretentiously concluding that I was too ignorant to understand its function. I benevolently allowed the petty, small insult, for now. He so needs to feel important, in control, dominant, and above my intelligence, and, as the childish illusion of power neither serves nor hinders my plans, I feel no harm in allowing this impression to persist. He needs to feel welcomed, embraced. And, so, I tutted him and laughed politely as though it was just an ordinary joke, albeit a social blunder, but jest nevertheless. The conversation flowed easier after that, as though my outsider's tongue had been loosened now. _

_We spoke for an hour over trifling things of little interest before I felt our time need draw to a close. Only then did I offer the copybook to the outsider. I need not teach Rodney McKay the Art. Not yet. Not until I am certain he is capable. However, I diplomatically implied that he might be bored here on Gitsahth. Rodney McKay raised an eyebrow and shrugged it off, but I know he lied. I offered him the copybook and suggested he consider it. He may have denied his boredom, his loneliness before, but my outsider snatched up the copybook quickly before returning to his quarters. _

_The next day, Rodney McKay did not leave his quarters, not even for morning or midday meals. When he did not make a sound, not even a whimper, I had my serving man prepare a simple supper for him for me to bring him personally. I took that and another copybook of my work to him. I knocked, but he did not answer. I entered and found my guest seated at his work desk, writing madly away in a blank copy book. I set the meal beside him on the desk with the intention of peering over his shoulder, only to have him hunch over his work protectively. _

_I turned to leave him to his work, then, when he stopped me and handed my copybook back, asking what sort of a joke it was. I feigned innocence. Rodney McKay scoffed at the intellect of anyone who could believe such a world could exist. He commented that it defied the laws of nature and physics before turning to his work. I leafed through the copybook and found he had written all over it, noting the places where there were structural instabilities to the Age, both obvious and subtle, physical insecurities and improbabilities that would, in time, lead the Age to collapse and self-destruct under the crushing weight of its own gravitational force._

_His work was absolute and undeniable genius. Rodney McKay is an natural Writer, with an instinctive sense for the delicately balanced mechanics of the Art of writing Ages. He will make a fitting protege._

xxx

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Atlantis, Rahd'ni notes with a clear pang of despair renewed, is not too dissimilar from the City right before the end. The entire city of Atlantis seems to be a complicated web of tall corridors and halls, winding about one another and weaving together in a seamlessly intricate web. Angular, colored glass windows span from the smoothly worn floor to the towering ceilings, each glowing with a faint, radiant warmth not unlike the many, large fire marbles lining the streets. Crystalline slivers of light in mellow, tranquil reds, muted oranges and chipper golds cast through the patterns to illuminate the copper and blue halls.

Aside from mere aesthetics, the city of Atlantis bears the same impressively ancient yet warmly welcoming feeling as D'ni. The sinuous, burnished floors feel smooth and buttery beneath him, as though worn by the tread of many thousands of feet, an eerily and achingly familiar sensation to the velveteen nara lined avenues and grand walks leading endlessly up from the main portion of the city to the Guild House Rahd'ni spent so much time in. There is a bustle about Atlantis, steeply imbued by the same life, vigor, and earnest passion for learning and for excellence as had once been in the eyes of the younger guildsmen rushing this way and that through the corridors.

Sheppard speaks slowly and almost reverently as he wheels beside Rahd'ni, in the same hallowed tones as Lady Ti'ana had once used to describe D'ni itself. "Atlantis is more than just a city, Rahd'ni, but you probably already guessed that. She's a ship, the home of this race of people called the Ancients. But she's more than that."

A mental haze coils its way about Rahd'ni's brain, blurring reality between the lines here and there uncomfortably. His heart longs for D'ni once more, for the richness of life there and the exuberance of the younger guildsmen he had befriended before the fall, yet it aches for Atlantis as well, for something just beyond the reaches of his shattered memory. Rahd'ni wonders, if he closes his eyes, will he see the Guild House about him once more, the grandiose halls extending forth before him to the Council chambers and the elaborate vestibule beyond? Or will it be another of the labyrinthine halls of Atlantis leading to a laboratory and a cup of something brewed and steaming, served in an alabaster colored mug and set before an expanse of white board begging to be marked upon with calculations and derivatives? Rahd'ni winces slightly at himself, wondering exactly where these fragments of imagery belong.

Jeruth mewls softly from her place curled up about his neck in a faint sound of protest. She senses his unease, and it clearly bothers the small creature. Rahd'ni can feel her displeasure, her disquiet. The silky little reekoo trembles where she presses against his skin, her miniscule claws gripping roughly through his shirt. Rahd'ni occasionally absently strokes her downy fur to sooth Jeruth.

He follows Sheppard through the city, past the various labs and communal areas, listening to the colonel extoll the many virtues of Atlantis. He introduces Rahd'ni to a few of the Athosians who Rahd'ni curiously feels he might know, granted the odd stares whenever Sheppard utters his D'ni name. He allows Sheppard to weave his tales of charitable efforts and peaceful exploration with a distance, a wariness taught by time and trial, musing to himself on how it seems like nothing more than the practiced propaganda of an experienced councilman attempting to sway a vote his way. Sheppard goes on and on despite this, as though he could fix Rahd'ni's shattered mind by sheer force of will; it is another annoyance that irks Rahd'ni, rubbing him quite the wrong way in fact and adding to the unease that holds him tight.

His mind, still lost and quite far away in these musings, almost dose not register when Sheppard speaks once more as he wheels along beside Rahd'ni. "And here we are."

Rahd'ni cocks an eyebrow but says nothing. His time in D'ni has taught him better, to question with his eyes first before his sharp tongue. He waits in patient silence, as patient and eternal as the stone wreathing about the great city cavern of D'ni, watching curiously, as studious as any intrepid new acolyte to the Guilds. Sheppard has brought him to a heavy, imposing doors with thick locking bolts and flanked by two stern looking men, bulking and imposing enough to boast the Maintainer's Guild insignia had they been D'ni. The design is incongruous, clashing with the soft, muted metallic colors and art deco architecture. It is a recent addition, his mind silently notes, pondering the meaning of such a jarring creation. Something dangers lies beyond.

_"I am too close to see the Whole," _he concludes in a heartbeat, bracing himself for whatever is behind that door as Sheppard nods to the armed guards.

It is something Lady Ti'ana told Rahd'ni often, something her father had told her and Aitrus had thoroughly embraced, enthralled by the sheer ingenuity of the philosophy. She had explained it once, quite simply, that the universe is more than just several disjointed incidents and players, but also the sum total of such factors. To truly understand anything - _anything - _in the known universe, one haS to see both the cogs driving the machine and the end product.

He holds his breath as the door swings open, with a barely audible whisper upon the welled-oiled, monstrous hinges. Rahd'ni blinks in surprise at the darkness that lies beyond the threshold, but his eyes adjust swiftly. His eyes have grown accustomed to the pale light of D'ni, and they quickly welcome the swell of familiarity to the city.

"Come on in and see the freak show," Sheppard teases flatly with a sweeping gesture.

Rahd'ni shivers at the awkward toning joke of voice, the uneven keel to it that unsettles him somehow, like being on the outside of a drastically cruel inside joke. Jeruth snarls from his shoulder and slithers down his sleeve to towards his knapsack, her claws digging into his arm. Rahd'ni hardly feels it. He plucks the creature from his shirt and protectively cradles it close to his chest. She vibrates with a nervous rattle in the back of her throat.

It is a laboratory of some form, filled with various consoles and computers. Beakers line the walls, filled with odd samples of fleshy bits and colored, viscous fluids that bubble languidly in their jars. Lights flicker upon broken and long abandoned projects here and there. Organic electrical conduit of slick, black flesh slinks over the floor and dangles from where it is strung from the ceiling like forgotten garlands. It quivers and twitches as though a live thing, responsive to stimuli and adaptive. Rahd'ni's fingers itch and quiver, longing to just touch and investigate each and every bit of those projects.

"Ah, Colonel John Sheppard," a voice intones with a deep rumble from somewhere beyond in the dim light. "Come to pay me a visit, yes?"

_Wraith! _Rahd'ni flinches inwardly at the thought, the instinctive recognition flickering from the depths of his mind. He knows that sound of voice, that strange, predatory purr. The temperature of the room plummets to an arctic chill, racing up and down his spine and sending shivers playing with his body. Jeruth hisses wide and terrified once more before scrambling to the safety of the knapsack. They are in the presence of a beast, but Sheppard hardly pays any heed, wheeling through the jumbled array of parts and tubes towards the back of the lab.

There is the sound of a deep inhalation, and, upon exhalation, comes the almost sinfully delighted croon. "And you have brought a guest."

Sheppard frowns. "Something like that."

At last, they reach the far back of the lab, where a long, wide work bench spans nearly the entire back well. A long figure sits there, his back to Rahd'ni. Long, silvery threads of thin hair dangle down the man's spine and cascade across the wide, broad shoulders. He works in silence, laboring with delicate, nimble motions over a piece of organic cable draped over the station and slit open, exposing the intricate network of microfilaments encased within the sickly, stinking flesh. The stranger purposefully ignores both Sheppard and Rahd'ni before freezing, drawing another deep breath.

"Doctor Rodney McKay," the stranger whispers, a reverence to the voice. "It has been some time indeed."

The flaxen-haired stranger turns slowly in his chair, and Rahd'ni almost bolts immediately in the instinctive natural terror of prey faced with their ancestral predator. The man at the desk is not a man at all, but a sneering beast with twisted, angular features, skin glistening with moisture, and flashing gold eyes. And, yet, the features are aged and weathered beyond the smooth, waxen details conjured in the back of Rahd'ni's mind. The face is marred by fine lines at the edges of the creature's eyes and mouth, eyes that Rahd'ni somehow knows should not be there. There seems a weariness, a certain degree of effort to his movements where Rahd'ni feels the creature should move fluidly and slickly. The hair is not smooth and glossy as a wolf's pelt, but dry and straw-like. The creature seems faded and thin, even beneath the bulky, leather clothes.

"Todd...." the name falls from Rahd'ni's mouth before he knows it, a sullen sound of perhaps grief or surprise, he cannot tell.

The Wraith blinks slowly, too slowly for Rahd'ni's liking, dipping his head. It is the tiniest of inclines, truly, but some part of Rahd'ni knows this is more respect than any Wraith would dare offer him. He is not certain why, but he does not question, choosing instead to hold tight to that knowledge and savor it to himself in silence. The Wraith takes a moment before awkward extending his hand towards Rahd'ni. He shies from it, stepping back and away from the open, pale palm and the raised, pink scar crossing it.

The Wraith starts, glancing down at his offering hand and immediately draws it back to him. "Forgive me. I was under the impression that this is the appropriate greeting of your kind."

Sheppard smirks a lopsided smile. "Why, Todd, I didn't think you cared."

"I do not," the Wraith admits without any hint of emotion before returning to his work. "I find, however, that it makes your people more amenable when I appear to be assimilating normal social custom." He lifts a lip into a downright horrid and macabre grin. "And I do find it puts off the more irritating specimens of your kind enough that they avoid my presence altogether."

"Always thinking ahead," the colonel quips. He looks to Rahd'ni at his side and grows serious once more, explaining, "Rahd'ni, this is-"

_A hand upon his chest, slamming down. The crack of his own sternum breaking, fragile as his mother's good china beneath the crushing blow. The hot breath of a Wraith upon his face, the stench of old blood and rotted flesh upon its pointed, vile teeth. The kiss of moon white hair brushing against his cheek and rustling against his ear. The awful feeling of his life seeping impossibly away from him, flowing through him and into the Wraith. The Wraith's pale cheeks flushing with vitae that rightly belongs in him, in Rodney! _

"A Wraith," Rahd'ni spits, clenching his teeth against the sudden migraine that sweeps through his mind, sending a harsh throbbing pulse beat through his temples and reverberating deep in his cranium.

_Running, fleeing. Sheppard taking point, leading them through narrow corridors of bruised flesh. The air, hot and stuffy, uncomfortable and claustrophobic. The very heart and belly of a Wraith hive ship. Teyla at his side, bolting with long, elegant strides, a veritable goddess of the hunt or war beside him, Athena, Artemis, any and all of them all in one lithe form. Ronon coming up behind them, somehow keeping just ahead of the stomping, thundering Wraith drones chasing them. Throwing himself at a console._

"Well, yeah," Sheppard admits. "Todd's been with us for a few years now, since taking the good Dr. Beckett's gene therapy." The Wraith raises both hands to display the smooth skin there, marred only by long, pale scars; Sheppard smiles widely and chirps, "Quite tame now."

Todd sighs heavily, a worn sort of sound escaping him before he gestures to his face. "However, the treatment has had..... unfortunate side affects."

The aging, Rahd'ni realizes grimly, is what the Wraith is suggesting. Wraith do not age as humans do, their bodies slowly wearing and weathering with time. They remain constant, their faces carved and chiseled in fine bone and calcium carbonate exoskeleton. Todd, however, is showing the faint crows feet and wrinkles that suggest a human aging.

_On Atlantis, the city hurtling through space. The city trembles and shakes violently about them. Metal groaning in his ears, whining in protest of the sudden stress after thousands of years beneath the water. Sheppard in the chair, his fingers digging into the armrests as he struggles to hold the city-ship together. The Wraith. They have to get away. The Wraith are coming._

Rahd'ni shudders, his head swimming and stomach turning. Neither the Wraith, Todd, nor Sheppard says anything for a moment. Instead, they stare with wide eyes as Rahd'ni attempts to swallow the headache and force it down. The Wraith twitches oddly, his wide, feral eyes fixated upon Rahd'ni's mouth with a sort of anticipation. Warmth seeps down from his nose to his lips, a heat that gives a metallic taste to it.

"Um...... Rahd'ni...." Sheppard breathes, gesturing with a fluttering motion of his fingertips beneath his own nose. "You've got something...."

Rahd'ni trembles and gingerly touches his fingertips to his upper lip; when he draws them away, they are stained crimson. Blood. He roughly wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve in surprise as lightning surges of white hot pain sear across his brain.

"Rahd'ni, I think we'd better get you back to the infirmary....."

The man gives a quiet, half-hearted bob of his head and slowly turns to make his way from the lab back to the infirmary. Sheppard turns to leave, easing on the wheels of the chair, but the Wraith's hand shoots out in speedy defiance of his seeming frailty. Sheppard glances back in fear as the Wraith squeezes hard upon his wrist, holding him sharply. The colonel blinks, glaring as he meets the beast's feral, honey gold gaze. Sheppard glances back to Rahd'ni, but the man has stumbled too far out of earshot, back to the door.

The Wraith drops his to a low hiss, far too low for Sheppard to hear. "I am not amused by this play of yours."

"My, my, whatever do you mean?" Sheppard coyly taunts, despite his unease and the almost palpable tension churning thickly between them.

The Wraith growls, a lowly, throaty sound, with a certain rattling vibration to it emanating from deep within. "I am not a specimen for display or personal amusement." His golden eyes flicker with a certain measure of what might be sorrow to the scar in his hand, to the lines upon his fingers and the age written there. "It will do you well to remember this."

xxx

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A battery of tests along with an extremely concerned Dr. Keller await Rahd'ni upon his untimely return to the infirmary after his all too unpleasant visit with the Wraith. She wrinkles her face in a vaguely maternal expression as she tends to him and gently administers a mild painkiller. He looks pained, his features strained by the seemingly endless barrage of blood draws and excruciatingly droll neurological tests. The doctor longs to touch him as she once had, to gently brush his neck and simply sooth his worry away, but that is no longer her place. She stands now with a wide, cold and yawning gulf between herself and the silent, contemplative man she had once called her lover.

He sleeps for some time after that, a quiet lulling doze while Keller studies the results of this new battery of tests carefully, sifting through the facts and data. She glances at him occasionally, ever satisfied with the peace she spies upon his features, a calmness in him. One of her staff brings him an evening meal of simple fair, and Keller watches cautiously from a distance as the nurse rouses Rahd'ni and as he lips at he food listlessly before making a note of it in his chart. He sleeps after that, his back to her and curled about his knapsack protectively, Jeruth snuggled up against him and purring away contentedly.

Rahd'ni hears her behind him as she drifts through the infirmary to check on him one last time before retiring for the evening. He pricks an ear to the sound of her motion as she pauses to note something in his chart before tiptoeing away. She must think he is asleep; it is late after all. He waits in practiced stillness for her to leave. Keller does not know he sleeps sparingly, and Rahd'ni does not wish to worry her more than necessary over trifling issues as his insomnia.

Once he is certain she is gone and the darkened infirmary lies empty and quiet once more, Rahd'ni takes his journal from his knapsack. Slowly, he turns the pages, studying the words written there in an awkward smattering of D'ni, Ancient, Wraith, English, Russian, Goa'uld, and the mathematical equations associated with each specific language in a chaotic hodgepodge. He leafs through his maps of the city, trailing the tips of his fingers delicately over his own schematics for the fabrication of what Sheppard called a zero point module. He lingers on the pages detailing Gemedet, the personal Age of Lady Ti'ana and Master Aitrus, waxing on the verdant, rolling hills and trees, wishing for just a moment he could again be at the well cavern, marveling at the sun at its zenith pouring golden light down through to the carved, wooden cover to dance in the chilled, spring-fed waters below. He thumbs past his notations for Lantea, skimming quickly over his documentation of the downfall of the once great D'ni empire and his various theories as well as the newer drawings and notes for Atlantis until he comes at last to his final note.

_Gormeht kehn tomeht biv roo miruh. Tsahn botaigahn shehm, oyn mor'okh'mor, Jennifer._

He smiles to himself wistfully for a moment before turning his attention to documenting more about this place, his golden Age of Lantea. He loosely sketches what he remembers of the Wraith's twisted, angular features, paying special attention to the pointed teeth and the sheer incongruity of aging in the fine lines and shadows of slowly forming wrinkles. He quickly scribbles what he recalls of their anatomy and behaviors, the memories flittering through his brain like butterflies twittering on the wing. Rahd'ni has much to annotate on this evening from the Wraith to the structure of Atlantis and the mapping of her internal halls and corridors, but his thoughts keep returning even with this distraction to Jennifer.

Rahd'ni flips back to his little note, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile as he reads the words he has penned.

_"Now I am here with all that I would desire. Always I will love you, heart of my hearts, Jennifer." _

He closes the journal, hugs the leather bound book to his chest, and rolls over to sleep once more.

xxx

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xxx

Dr. Keller sighs to herself heavily as she walks down the long halls of a dimly lit nighttime Atlantis and looks down to the band of silver. The metal feels cool and smooth to the touch, soft in a way. Rodney would likely go on and on for days about how he had been cheated, sold an impure alloy not worth whatever he had traded for it. The ring is rather rough, poured to the mold by humble craftsmen. She can almost picture him blushing and flustering nervously about the thing, making his general, fluttering motions with his hands. Yet, he apparently never had the opportunity to make such a gesture.

Teyla had found the ring. After the meager search was called off for Rodney, Woolsey asked the sensible minded Athosian to pack his things, particularly any items of great sentimental value, for return to his sister. Teyla sorted out several items, carefully wrapping and stowing them for transit back to Earth, including his degrees, his various awards, his books and private computer. It was only after much of his room had been cleared had the Athosian found the tiny, square box tucked between the bed frame and mattress. She had instinctively sensed the importance of the item and brought it, along with the silver treasure still wrapped in a white, silk handkerchief of Rodney's to Keller.

Keller starts when she realizes she has arrived at the door to her quarters and pushes the thought aside. The room is dimly lit, but warm and cozy, waiting just as she prefers it. However, Keller is not alone. A lump stirs on the bed as she enters silently. She perches herself upon the edge of the wide, plush bed feeling the mattress sink beneath the weight of the other as he shifts and rolls towards her, sighing slightly. On any other evening, the woman might have just slipped under the covers with him and curled up to snuggle and savor every small measure of his strong embrace.

A wide hand rubs her shoulder, gently massaging the deeply set knots while a second cards lovingly through her hair; a voice rumbles in her ear something between a predatory purr and a mellow whisper. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," she replies evenly, tasting the lie, both bitter and sour on her tongue like bile.

Keller can almost hear his smirk as he ruffles her hair playfully and teases, "You're a horrible liar." For a moment, neither says a thing, but, after a long pause, he lets out a heavy breath and asks, "You're thinking about him again, aren't you?"

Keller does not ask for clarification. She does not need to. He means Rodney. He knows that the doctor often thinks fondly of Rodney, sometimes laughing and joking about the funnier stories, sometimes softly crying herself to sleep at night in his muscular arms as she remembers the tender moments between herself and Rodney so many years ago. Surprisingly, it did not foster any jealousy or ill feelings to her knowledge in the past; he seemed to understand her private pain over the matter. However, that was when Rodney McKay was dead, his ghost interred along with a few of his personal items in Canada in his family's plot under a towering, creaking spruce, before the physicist returned to them. Now, his voice holds a flatness to it, a practiced lack of emotion to conceal his opinions and feelings.

Now, the woman cannot lie, not to him. "Yeah."

"You still miss him," the man notes, broaching this dangerous new territory of emotion cautiously, his fingers limply slipping down her long arm. A tear rolls down her cheek, which he quickly brushes away with the ball of his thumb as he soothes, "It's alright. I know."

"I can't hide anything from you, can I?" she blurts out along with a nervous chortle.

"Never." He strokes her hair tenderly before lying back once more. "Come to bed."

Keller nods half-heartedly, going through the motions of changing into her pajamas without any conscious thought or effort. It seems a blink of an eye before she is sidling up beside him, feeling the warmth of his bulk bleeding through her soft, cotton t-shirt comfortingly. He wraps his arms about her, encircling her in his strength and planting a kiss upon her forehead. She snuggles close to him, burrowing her head against his broad chest.

"This changes everything," Keller whispers timidly.

He shakes his head, his words vibrating against her ear. "It changes nothing. I still love you, Jennifer."

"I know..."

He can hear the question lingering there and supplies, "But?"

"But.... I don't know." She frowns, uncertain of the thought on the tip of her tongue.

"You still have feelings for him, don't you?" He asks, his voice going gruff and unkind.

Keller cannot stop the tears now, feeling them streaming down her face in hot, searing trails. "Yes."

"You haven't told him about us, have you?" he questions sternly.

"No... how could I?"

He sighs, a cold jealous sound before rolling away from her, putting his back to her, stealing his warmth away. His body goes stiff and rigid with rejection. Her fingertips brush his arm, but he coldly and brusquely shrugs off her touch. She blinks in surprise, suddenly quite alone on her side of the bed for the first time in two years, the first time since their simple, haphazard wedding on a sun-drenched beach. Her lip quivers at the abrupt abandonment of her lover.

"I'm so sorry, Ronon."

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**Author's Note : **Sorry for delays with all my stories. I wanted to update before Otakon, but that obviously did not happen. So, if you were there, hope you had as delightful a time as I did!!!

By the by, I'm trying to rotate stories, so _Feast of the Samhain _is next for update. Huzzah!


	3. Fault Lines

**FAULT LINES**

_**From the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_Today, the true work has begun. I woke the outsider early this morning, far earlier than he has been accustomed to and well before Gitsahth's metallic gold dawn. I had need to, if we were to remain on schedule. He balked initially but fell into stride obediently at my heel with just a sharp glare. My but he is coming along into a well-trained little pet already._

_Rodney McKay followed me quite quietly down to the one room in the entire keep that he has not been allowed to traipse; the Book Room. There, I handed him the copybook with which I had measured his potential just yesterday. I inquired casually if he recalled the contents of the copybook, to which I received a moderately snide response to the affirmative. He contained his sarcasm quickly though under just a quick glance. Rodney McKay is tired and irritated, but he is no fool to test my patience for too long. He apologized quickly and again quite fervently asserted his recollection of the contents of the copybook when Suahrnir joined us. There is certainly something to be said about the presence of a Maintainer of his stature to curtail poor manners in any outsider, no matter how recalcitrant._

_I unlocked the door to the Book Room, careful to ensure that my protege could see the complexity to a lock designed by perhaps one of the greatest of all the Grand Masters of the Maintainers, as well as where I keep the key tucked on me. I wanted him to know that this is no ordinary lock which could be picked by a few wire bits of metal nor chips of nara. The Book Room is without doubt the most secure room within the stone keep of Gitsahth, carved into the very rock of the island its self, assuring that the Book Room has walls spanning several spans thick in each direction. The door to the Book Room measures nearly a foot in thickness of pure nara, slipping into carved niches in the wall when it opens, as opposed to swinging upon hinges. I wanted Rodney McKay to see all of this in turn and to know that the only means into the Book Room and thusly to other Ages is through me and me alone._

_I presented Rodney McKay with the book of Eder Tomahn. It is an Age of my own hand, a temperate place of gentle seasons, lush throughout Eder Tomahn's short year cycles. It is the text of Eder Tomahn that I copied so incorrectly to test my pet's mettle. Rodney McKay instantly recognized it as so. _

_Under Suahrnir's watchful eyes, I instructed Rodney McKay to link through to Eder Tomahn and joined him. My timing, as always, was impeccable. We linked into Eder Tomahn shortly before dawn, just in time to watch the sun crest over the horizon and reveal the Age about him, the functioning Age which he had previously tutted as nothing more than a joke. _

_His surprise was nothing short of a delight. I may not be a Guildsman anymore, but I am still D'ni, still a Writer, and, as such, still __exceptionally __proud of the Art. I savored the shock on his face as he marveled at the beauty which I have so carefully crafted into Eder Tomahn, the same physical attributes which he had scoffed at just yesterday in the copybook. Rodney McKay stammered and pondered at the seeming impossibility of Eder Tomahn, a humorous sight to say the least. He insisted it a jest, an illusion and nothing more, until I produced the copybook for him to study. He meandered, for a time, studying this world that conforms so precisely to world he glimpsed in the copybook after his corrections and leafing through his copybook. The green deciduous trees, the clears waters of the streams, the purple mountains in the distance with their snow capped peaks, every small detail described in the copybook._

_While he stumbled about, I dined upon a simple breakfast upon the slight bluff by the secure chest which stores the linking books out of this Age, including the one back to Gitshahth. From such a vantage point, Rodney McKay could not flee nor plot against me, nor could he hope to escape to another Age or back to Gitshahth with me perched so cautiously over the cache of linking books. It was an unnecessary measure in the end, as Rodney McKay remained enthralled by Eder Tomahn and nothing else. _

_About Eder Tomahn's midday, Rodney McKay returned to my side, demanding to know how this worked. It sickens me, even now, to admit these sins, this abomination against D'ni in introducing an outsider to this, the sacred Art of Writing, but I do only precisely that which I have been driven to exact. No more, no less. No matter how it pained me, I told him of the Art._

_He laughed and mocked me with his shrewd tongue, but he could not deny these facts when we returned to Gitshahth and I demonstrated. I took a blank book from my private stock. I allowed him to examine the book, the binding, the pages, and the vacant linking panel. Then, after his scrutiny, I took the book and scrolled a few lines, but the most minimal of structure for an Age. I allowed him, once more, to survey the book. Then, I instructed him to link through, to find an appropriately corresponding Age on the other side, following him with a linking book back to Gitshahth. No more could he deny the Art._

_It is curious, however. After witnessing this with his own eyes, Rodney McKay said something quite unusual. He called the book a "star gate" and asked to know more, perhaps never so thrilled before in all his time in my custody. I indulged his curiosity, explaining only the base mechanics behind the writing of an Age. I postulated to him, then, that it would be possible, with the precise writing, of course, to create a link to any world, including his own. _

_The seed planted, I allowed it to germinate on its own for a few days until Rodney McKay came to me._

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Ronon rises easily and silently in the predawn darkness, slipping out from between the sheets and into clean clothes before stepping into the dimmed corridors - and all without even stirring his wife in the slightest. He prefers these long, somnolent hours spanning from the darkest depths of midnight into the watery glow of dawn. There is a preternatural silence and stillness to these witching hours, even in a place teeming such as Atlantis that teems with life and hardly ever seems to draw breath.

The Satedan pauses to give a last look at Jennifer before shutting the door behind him. No single residence in Atlantis is perfectly dark between simple lighting dimmed for night and the slivered windows through which pale shards of diffuse moonlight shimmer off the Lantean Sea. The muted blue tones kiss her face softly upon her high, rounded cheeks and pert nose. She is lovely, even now, exhausted as she is, even tainted by the sorrowed memory of her once lover. He shall have to speak with her again on the matter, but certainly not now and not until he has had time to think clearly on the matter.

The moon is still slung high upon the darkened Lantean sky when Ronon steps soundlessly onto the metal catwalk. On crystalline still mornings such as this, after McKay vanished and was finally declared KIA by the American military, Ronon spent several hours running along these walks and paths in the many sublevels to the vast city of Atlantis to clear his mind of the doubt that lingered still in regards to the loss of McKay, with varying degrees of success depending on the morning in question. Sometimes, he ran with Sheppard, other times, he ran alone as he does now, accompanied only by the sound of his own feet echoing down the long, lonely stretches of corridors and walkways of Atlantis.

Ronon sighs as he jogs, hanging his head. When McKay disappeared, it had seemed so very simple. He, Sheppard, and Teyla scoured the Pegasus Galaxy for him, searching high and low for any sign of their lost friend or a civilization capable of creating such wonders as the book that stole Rodney away. It had been both insufferably depressing and infuriating at the same time. After everything they had encountered in the galaxy, after the Genii, the Asurans, and the Wraith, all the other assorted horrors of an entirely unkind and unmerciful universe, for McKay to be taken by something as tiny, insignificant and humble as that book? It was almost too ironically cruel to bear.

It had been Jennifer who had been the one to bear the worst of it all. She had loved Rodney, dearly so. Her grief had been a heavy, cumbersome thing, swallowed her with voracious appetite. Yet, the doctor bore her sadness with a surprising and entirely impressive grace, treating her patient with the same tender care as always, yet with a slight reservation and distance to her hollowed eyes. It had been her place to ferry Rodney's scant personal effects back to his family along with the solemn news of his change in status from missing in action to killed in action. She did it, and did it all from behind the perfect, porcelain veneer of quiet composure, with an honor and dignity that seemed impossible granted her sorrow.

Only Ronon had not been fooled so simply by her mask. Years on the run from the Wraith had taught him to be a suspicious and observant person, to a fault at times. He had seen through her eyes down to the depths of her suffering, to the very pit of her wallowing underneath it all. The Satedan had melted and taken pity upon her, silently allowing her paltry illusion of calm acceptance to persist out of a sympathy he had previously thought long dead within him.

And, somehow, she had known. A woman's intuition, perhaps. Yet neither said a word, slipping into an uneasy complicity with one another. He said nothing of the dark rings forming beneath her eyes, while she said nothing of the excuses he began to find to check on her in the infirmary, some of which were beginning to seem McKay-quality. It went on for months that way until she finally broke down one night in Ronon's arms.

That, however, had been in what now felt a distant life now that McKay has returned.

Ronon sighs once more as he turns out onto a catwalk leading westward to one of the less occupied piers. His is not an entirely unheard of situation. He has actually witnessed this once before, on Sateda, as unlikely as it may seem. A fellow specialist and member of his squad, Erras, had been declared killed in action by mistake after being critically wounded and severely disfigured by an incendiary. His wife, Mara, after grieving his death just as Jennifer grieved for Rodney, moved on, just as Jennifer had. Mara had remarried while Erras slumbered, unaware that her first husband lived on. When Erras awoke, there had been the understandable confusion and discomfort, but Ronon had little care to follow the gossip surrounding the situation.

Ronon tries to shake himself of the sensation, but he cannot so easily shuffle loose the odd sensation that he cannot describe - something bordering between jealousy and friendship. It swallows him whole. Thusly distracted, his feet move of their own accord, pacing circles and paths that Ronon runs every day. Down through the bowels of Atlantis and away from prying eyes where he can breathe in peace. Up and across the gantries that span over workshops, cargo holds, and, eventually over the jumper bays before doubling back through Operations and towards the infirmary. He has run this way so very often, using the path as a quick excuse to visit his bride that Ronon has entirely forgotten this until he stands just beyond the door.

He has only seen Rodney McKay - or Rahd'ni as everyone insists - but briefly and not nearly for enough time to accurately gauge what is left of the man he once called friend. What he has seen has been... questionable. This Rahd'ni is quiet and flighty, yet contemplative and deep. He is a creature of revealing and concealing, yet a man of great fear and responsibility. Rahd'ni seems harrowed somehow, bowed by an unspoken, unseen weight. Ronon cannot put his finger on it.

Ronon draws a breath and nods to himself; one small glance will do no harm. He slips into the infirmary in silence, pausing only to give a quick nod to one of the nurses before climbing up to the observation deck above isolation. No one stops him; the entire staff has grown quite accustomed to Ronon's visits.

There, Ronon peers down, into the dim room and spies a figure below, huddled on the single bed. Rahd'ni. He seems so much smaller now, thinner and drawn, worse so from above. He seems vulnerable asleep, so very haggard. Ronon frowns as the physicist tenses even in his sleep. Rahd'ni's scarred hands twitch and jerk with unconscious movements. He is dreaming, and it is not a pleasant dream judging from the motions.

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_The orange glow of the great lake about D'ni has almost dimmed to a twilight glow when a soft chime stirs the humble residence, jarring Rahd'ni from the experiment he has been laboring so intently over for several hours. He blinks, having not realized how late the hour and how dark his study has grown. He strikes a small fire marble and sets the cheerfully glowing orb upon the delicate, wired armature inside the lantern, focusing the light upon his creation. It is almost ready, whatever it is that he has crafted so diligently and so tirelessly these last few months. Rahd'ni nods appreciatively over his creation once more before rising to answer the incessant chiming at the door. _

_When Rahd'ni finally answers his door, it is to a man who appears perhaps five or ten years his younger, clad in a long, elegant cloak of the richly saffron color of the Messengers standing in the corridor of the Guild House. His youth is an illusion, Rahd'ni knows. The D'ni are a race marked by their longevity and the graceful nature to their aging. He may appear to be far younger than Rahd'ni, but the guildsman before him is at least in his Age of Reason - twenty five years or older, likely far older judging from the insignias upon his cloak demarking him as a Guild Captain of the Guild of Messengers, a man of significant rank. _

_The guildsman gives a slight bow of his head and inquires in a swift clip, "_Sir_Rahd'ni?"_

_Rahd'ni winces slightly at the audible discomfort to the title affixed him. His place in D'ni society is an awkward and precarious one at best. The Lords and the Council have graciously allowed him access to the various facilities of the different Guilds for his research as well as a private residence in the Guild House. Despite his undeniable genius, the Council is loathe to set a precedent in appointing a bookworlder to the title of Master, let alone one that is not classically trained by D'ni standards. Honorifics are important social protocol among the D'ni, and the term "sir" for Rahd'ni is a compromise of such._

_"Yes."_

_The guildsman smiles knowingly and hands a note to him. "From the Lady Ti'ana."_

_Rahd'ni furrows his brow and surveys the note penned in her airy script._

I am assuming that you do not recall the date nor occasion.

_Rahd'ni instantly grimaces at the opening statement. Tonight is the night that he is supposed to accompany both Master Aitrus and Lady Ti'ana to the Guild of Book Makers to hear their son, Gehn, read in the closing ceremony of the guild's Open Day. While both Master Aitrus and Lady Ti'ana are quite proud of their son, Lady Ti'ana is especially so, affectionate and protective of Gehn in a way that most D'ni would consider unbecoming. Rahd'ni understands; Gehn is a sickly yet cunning child that reminds him of himself somehow - a child in dire need of such love and attention. Lady Ti'ana had invited Rahd'ni immediately upon hearing that her son would read at the event, yet even she jested at the time that Rahd'ni would likely not remember._

You are so like the D'ni, so devoted to your work and your studies. It is no wonder then that no woman can hold your heart. However, I had the foresight to send a Messenger before leaving to remind you. If you are reading this, and hurry, you may make it before your absence is noticed.

_Rahd'ni nods at the Messenger. "Thank-you."_

_Before he can finish dismissing the guildsman, a faint hum meets his ear, gumming the words in his mouth. The messenger pricks his ear to the sound; all of D'ni seems to hold its breath as the hums sings through the city. Rahd'ni has heard his before, this same sound that stills the blood in his heart and steals the breath from his lungs. The more sheltered members of D'ni citizenry may not recognize the offending noise, but Rahd'ni does, even if it is vaguely so. He once traveled the great length of the Path to the surface with Ti'ana, Aitrus and their son. There, he experienced this same, perfect and crystalline sound, like a tuning fork struck in the deep. It is the sound of stone vibrating against itself, an earthquake in the depths of the rock slowly swelling as it impossibly and inexorably approaches._

_"SHIT!"_

_The profanity that bursts forth from Rahd'ni's mouth as the quake dawns upon the great cavern with a tremendous crack and thundering commotion is not in D'ni, but he has not the time to acknowledge this as such. Instead, he moves instinctively, a distant part of his mind already aware of what to do. His fingers close about the golden yellow cloak of the messenger and close just in time to haul the startled guildsman into the doorframe. Rahd'ni huddles over the messenger, throwing his arms protectively over the stranger and pressing him into the nara collar of the sturdy door as the guild house trembles and rumbles about them. He is not certain why he knows to do this, but it is effective in protecting both of them from the stray decor of the Guild House that tumbles from the walls in the quake. _

_The messenger struggles from the sudden, claustrophobic hold, but Rahd'ni clutches him tighter and squeezes him against the doorframe with a strength and protective ferocity that almost frightens him. "NO! IT'S NOT SAFE YET! JUST WAIT! WAIT!"_

_The messenger stills in his arms as the world rumbles and rattles about them. Rahd'ni listens, trying not to focus on the clatters and thuds that he hears even above the thundering of the earthquake as the cavern veritably sings in perfect tenor about them. The wall beside them gives with a tremendous slam, crashing into the hall of the Guild House. A stray chunk of nara catches Rahd'ni by the arm, clipping him with a force that sends lightning sparks flashing through the bone and right up to his eyes. He grunts but just clamps his eyes shut, waiting for it to be over._

_"It'll be over soon... not much longer... soon, soon... just stay here and you'll be alright," Rahd'ni whispers to himself over and over again in a cobbled, broken mix of that other language and D'ni, barely intelligible in either language, he knows._

_The quake subsides just as suddenly as it struck, and the world goes uncomfortably silent. Rahd'ni swallows hard and breathes, just breathes, for a long moment before slowly, awkwardly uncurling from atop the messenger. Something lurches in the pit of Rahd'ni's stomach, making his blood run cold and his mouth go acutely dry and cottony. Something is horribly wrong, tolling as a death knoll in the back of his mind even before the great bell atop the Guild House sounds._

_"The rock was stable," the messenger croaks incredulously, coughing a bit on the dust kicked up from the quake. _

_Rahd'ni knows somehow, impossibly. "The rock_ was_stable."  
_

_It is true. Centuries upon centuries have proven that the stone in which D'ni nestles is stable rock. The D'ni are a patient and cautious people burrowing their labyrinthine networks of tunnels, paths and nodes in the deep. No excavation, no matter how slight occurs without thorough sounding and serious preventative measures taken to avoid structural failure, and the great cavern that holds the city is no exception. Hundreds of soundings have shown the rock to be stable... meaning something has changed, something has _been_changed. Something has __been __changing these last few months in D'ni, and it smacks at him._

_It tugs at the back of Rahd'ni mind, sending him racing from the doorframe and to the balcony of his residence as the messenger stumbles back into the hall and scrambles away. Only Guild Masters are granted such lavish accommodations to have their own residences aside from the barracks, let alone one large enough to afford a balcony with a view of anything worthwhile. Rahd'ni, however, is fortunate enough to have been given such a luxury. He rushes to it to survey the city._

_Outside, chaos is unfolding in the city beneath him. It begins with a single, howling, lamenting wail from one of the lower districts, rising up and gaining in voices. Several houses and buildings are toppled, the worst of the damage in the lower districts, it seems from his vantage point. Dozens of lights still burn brightly out on the lake from boats and the many islands, but Rahd'ni has no way to know what the damage is upon those spires jutting from the now placid waters of the lake._

_However, any destruction on those tiny islands pales in compare to what rivets his attention and focus. A giant crag has opened on the far side of the cavern, slitting the once secure stone and gaping like a great, wide maw. It is a fissure, a fault line split into the stone and cleaved into the structure of the cavern, spewing forth a ghastly belch of sickly, choking black smoke._

_"The rock was sound," Rahd'ni mutters once more to himself, unable to believe the sight of the crack. "The rock was sound..." _

_The smoke that pours from the crack lurches forward, reaching out in ghastly, black tendrils and spreading out, over the lake. Where the inky black touches the waters, even if only for a tiny, momentary kiss, the light giving algae smothers and dims, dying away to nothing. Should it reach the city... then... Rahd'ni shudders at the vaguely formed terror even as the great bell of the Guild House sounds loudly from above._

_The bell tolls in D'ni for two things alone. The death of one of the Five Lords, or a direct threat to D'ni its self. Rahd'ni heart breaks with each solemn knoll of the great bell. D'ni is in grave danger, and somehow, Rahd'ni knows, in the far corners of his mind, he __knows __that this is more than a simple quake or natural disaster. He_ knows, _damnit! Rahd'ni bolts from his quarters even as a second tremor - more violent than the first - rocks the city and the Guild House, sending him tumbling to the ground allowing with falling masonry. He has to warn the Lords before it is too late._

_His mind reels, tumbling over its self as he runs and stammers to himself, "The Inkworks, Talashar's Classic, the linking books..."_

_This is an outright attack against D'ni._

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Rahd'ni jerks awake from his nightmare early, while the sky is still dark and this place - _Atlantis_ - is still hushed by nightly slumber. The city lazes about him, a great, living thing, but it does not sleep. It murmurs, even now, soft utterances and assurances in the back of Rahd'ni's mind with a demure, electric kiss and a faint hum. There is something akin to a lover's embrace, and Rahd'ni savors the sensation gratefully. It is a hushing reassurance and soft, massaging touch to him, lulling him and soothing away the nightmarish memories.

He dreams often of that last night in D'ni. True, Rahd'ni has lived in the ruins for some time after the downfall of that once great, glittering civilization hidden in the rock like a glorious, shining geode, but he cannot honestly consider the empty tomb where he has resided to be D'ni. The light of D'ni has long been long extinguished, snuffed out that night by the choking, black smoke with all of its many citizens, whatever bacterial or viral contagion it may have been that night so very long ago. Yet he dreams of it, even now, his dreams riddled with the fading screams of those unfortunate not to make it through to the relative safety of one of the Common Ages as the smoke reached the city and killed everything in its path before he, too, fled with the Lords and Council to a Age in verdant, fresh spring.

He rubs his bleary eyes and briefly checks the chrono upon his wrist before realizing how futile of an act that is. In D'ni, it is shortly before third bell, that strange twilight hour he has grown accustomed to from being roused by countless nightmares of a past he cannot recall. Even now, the lake should be blushing dusky orange as the bioluminescent algae stir from their own, nightly repose and the platinum white fish of the depths rise to feast upon the plankton and skittering insects dancing over the smoothly calm surface.

Rahd'ni shakes his head and smirks at himself to realize exactly how foolish a thing it is for him to consult his time piece. His chrono is set to D'ni time, and not the time of this Age. Rahd'ni knows that the passage of time in each Age is unique. Each Age revolves upon its axis and about its corresponding star by its own pace. He has penned Lantea to have a slightly shorter day that D'ni, but the precise current time is still a mystery to him. It may be in the late evening or early dawn.

Rahd'ni rises quickly and silently. However, despite his caution, the door to the room opens and, judging from the gentle footsteps, he is joined by another. He glances over his shoulder and turns upon his heel to face a woman in pale, pink uniform, not unlike the soft, muted salmon hues of the Guild of Healers. Even without that, something instinctively conveys that she is a healer. Rahd'ni bows his head formally to her, as well as the hulking Ronon.

"Is there something you need, Rod-Rahd'ni?" the woman asks tenderly. "It's still early. Maybe something to help you sleep?"

He shakes his head and smiles in polite decline. "No, no. I couldn't sleep much longer anyway." He frowns momentarily before inquiring. "It is early?"

"Little after dawn," Ronon answers briskly.

The nurse rolls her eyes and checks her watch. "Quarter to seven local time."

Rahd'ni nods and murmurs distantly, "Never past third bell."

It is a curious thing, one that has bothered Rahd'ni all these years since his recovery and time in D'ni. He rarely sleeps past third bell, always alert and always ready. Despite this, some distant part of his mind protests that this is wrong, unnatural for him to drag himself from bed so early. Rahd'ni shrugs it off.

"Your days are short, yes?" Rahd'ni inquires.

The nurse flusters, taken aback by the question. "Short? Compared to?"

"A day and night cycle consisting of thirty hours."

The nurse blinks in surprise and laughs, "Much!" She shakes her head oddly, still chuckling to herself. "Days here are about Earth norm." When Rahd'ni says nothing, merely stares with those off putting and curious blue eyes, she explains, "Earth revolves on a twenty four hour day, while Lantea's closer to about twenty three and a half - close enough to not really matter."

"Lantea..." Rahd'ni breathes, tasting the name of this world, this Age, just as he has imagined it. Ronon shifts uncomfortably at the sentiment stirring in his voice, drawing Rahd'ni's attention and sending him blurting out swiftly, "I am sorry." He bows his head once more. "I have disturbed you."

"It's my job to be disturbed by _you_," the nurse jokes, her eyes sparkling in mischievous delight.

Rahd'ni furrows his brow. "You know me?"

She smiles, a soft, serene smile. "You don't remember me, I know, but I've been with Atlantis for about as long as you have." She shrugs, smoothing a piece of her hair behind her ear sheepishly before launching into dizzying motion. "You're our best-worst patient. I remember this one time, you came in with a splinter that-"

Rahd'ni draws a quick breath as the nurse closes the distance between them, but Ronon quite fortunately and diplomatically intercedes. "Breakfast?"

"Yes..." he whispers. "Yes, of course."

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Breakfast is an entirely interesting affair. Ronon and Rahd'ni meet Teyla in the mess, and Sheppard joins them shortly, still bleary eyed from a night of poor slumber. Sleeping in a cast such as his is a difficult premise, the weight alien and uncomfortable. Every subtle shift of his body, every urge to roll over, every tiny motion has woken Sheppard through the night, leaving him unsatisfied, tired, and cranky, the sensation especially worsened when it seems that each and every member of the expedition insists on wishing him well for the break. He swallows his irritation and curtails his short temper, however, upon seeing Rahd'ni being served in line.

Rahd'ni greets Sheppard with a subtle nod of his head before returning his attention to his tray and plate. He is quiet as the mess attendant cautiously serves him a sampling of everything that does not contain citrus elements. Sheppard notes with a small smirk that it is one of the galley chefs that has been with Atlantis since shortly before Rodney disappeared, likely one to have suffered at least one brutal, spiteful tongue lashing from the physicist for serving up something "un-edible" in Rodney's all too humble opinion. Rahd'ni politely abstains from any commentary save a silent bob of his head in thanks for the service. Ronon says nothing as he fills a tray for Sheppard as well, but the John sees it has not escaped the Satedan's notice either.

Rahd'ni eyes the people gathered about the mess warily, his eyes darting back and forth, sweeping over these strangers. There is so much movement, too much movement. Each subtle shift of weight, every tiny hand gesture, snaps Rahd'ni attention until he feels dizzy and confused. He drops his gaze to the floor, to the unchanging mottled patches of color blooming upon the smoothly worn metal.

"Are you alright, Rahd'ni?" Teyla inquires softly.

He nods but does not look up.

They sit together at a far table in the corner by the windows where Rahd'ni does not have to watch the chaotic motion of the crowd, and, for a moment, there is something so surreally familiar and homey about the vignette. This is how they used to eat, ages ago, before D'ni. Yet, instead of laughing and joking as they once did, awkward, pregnant silence spans between them, as wide and impossibly vast as the years of Rodney's absence as they pick at their food in wait for something to break the spell. Eating offers some small means of distraction from that oddity, but that only lasts so long as the food does, leaving the silence roaring once more between them. Rahd'ni further stalls by feeding small scraps of meat to Jeruth where the strange little creature hides in his knapsack until even Jeruth gives a little burp and curls up to nap off the heavy meal.

It is entirely fortunate then that the silence is quickly broken by a somewhat hesitant voice. "Rahd'ni?" All heads turn to spy the newcomer, who quickly introduces himself and extends a friendly handshake. "Dr. Daniel Jackson."

Rahd'ni rises and formally greets the man by taking not his hand but his wrist, addressing him with the respect due to a ranking guildsman. "Rahd'ni." He bows his head slightly before gesturing to the table. "Please, join us."

Jackson's eyes flicker with uncertainty for but a moment to Sheppard - who nods - before pulling up a chair. "I'm guessing you don't remember me?" When Rahd'ni shakes his head, Jackson goes on softly, treading dangerous ground with caution, "Rahd'ni, I was wondering if it would be alright if I asked you a few questions later?"

Rahd'ni tenses visibly. "About?"

Jackson swallows and drops his gaze for a moment. "D'ni." Rahd'ni's eyes narrow, but Jackson goes on swiftly. "I know this must be hard for you, but I'm an anthropologist. I study different peoples, their history, and their culture." At the sight of Rahd'ni's scowl, he shakes his head. "I'm sorry. That was rude of me." Jackson retreats slightly, "This must be hard enough for you without me butting in. I was just curious about..."

Before Jackson can blunder onwards, Rahd'ni silences him with a small raise of his open palm. "No, no. It is alright. I meant no disrespect myself. Curiosity is a virtue held in high esteem by the D'ni." Sheppard raises an eyebrow at the poise and manners he had never seen in Rodney, but Rahd'ni sweeps his hand in beckon before him, a welcoming gesture. "Please, by all means, you may ask me anything."

Jackson blinks, equally taken back by Rahd'ni response before composing himself and blurting out, "Well, um…" The anthropologist shuffles through his notes and his journals before plucking a plain piece of paper and a pen from his things, ready to take notes on any small tidbit Rahd'ni might offer. "Perhaps we could start simple... maybe with government?"

Rahd'ni snickers, his blue eyes flashing with mischief. "Government is a simple starting point?"

"Er… we could start somewhere else if you prefer." Jackson flusters.

Rahd'ni shakes his head once more. "No, no. We can begin there if you wish." He swallows and looks down, gathering his thoughts before speaking slowly, with an even, collected tone that surprises all in attendance. "D'ni is governed by a council consisting of the eighteen Grand Masters and 19 elected representatives from each major guild, presided over by the Five Lords."

"A republic?" Sheppard ventures

Rahd'ni gives another shake of his head. "No. In a true republic, the representatives are elected by the people directly. In D'ni, the representatives of the guilds are elected from within the guilds to ensure that the representative in question is both an expert within their field and adept in the fine art of persuasion. It is somewhat a deliberative democracy."

"Do you know if D'ni was always ruled this way?" Jackson presses curiously.

Rahd'ni gives a quick shake of his head and explains, "There was a time when D'ni was ruled by great kings of men, the last of which being Kerath, the Brave One. It was Kerath who believed that D'ni should not be ruled by one man. During his reign, he furnished the construction of a new Guild Hall to provide the resources necessary of a council of his design before abdicating his throne to the first council."

"He sounds as though he was a wise and just leader," Teyla reasons gently, dipping her head slightly.

Rahd'ni rather matter-of-factly raps his knuckles on the table, his expression serious and respectful as he does. The others blink and stare in wide eyed amazement at the gesture, their faces blanching at the pale scars that mar the balled fist. Rahd'ni freezes at their expressions, flushes hotly at the obvious social error, and tucks his hand under the table and out of sight.

Sheepishly, Rahd'ni hangs his head and murmurs, "I am sorry."

"No, it's okay," Sheppard states soundly yet gently, unused to having to constantly reassure a man who had once been so stubborn, so headstrong.

Jackson furrows his brow and inquires, "What was that – the drumming?"

Rahd'ni looks down at his scarred hand lying in his lap and blushes furiously once more. "It is the D'ni way to show agreement or approval."

He grows sheepish and withdraws once more. A portion of Rahd'ni feels quite secure in this position and among these people, as though he has been here before. Yet, warring with that is the sensation of alienation, exacerbated by the intrigued stares, raised eyebrows and furtive glances passed between the others. It is the sentiment of curiously precarious poise, something in between belonging and not, as a puzzle piece that does not perfectly match the required shape yet has been wedged into place regardless.

Dr. Jackson says something that Rahd'ni misses, and he flushes once more, rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry. What was that?"

The doctor furrows his brow in concern before pursing his lips together and presenting Rahd'ni with a sheet of vellum that Rahd'ni recognizes as his abandoned letter. "I was just commenting on the complexity of the language. I was wondering if, perhaps, you would consider teaching me to read and write it?"

"Yes," Rah'dni murmurs oddly, his eyes clouded and his voice distant. "Yes, of course." He blinks once more before speaking again. His eyes gloss with a sorrowed sheen, but his words come steadily and evenly from his lips. "Although, it would be easier with a copy of the _Rehevkor._"

"Hm?" Jackson raises a brow, curiosity piqued by the word.

Rahd'ni shifts his weight uneasily and fidgets with his scarred, mangled hands, clearly bothered by something. "It is the D'ni lexicon. A children's primer." Rahd'ni must notice the nervous action in himself, for he presses his hands down firmly upon the table before continuing, "I shall teach you without it." He glances about, fruitlessly seeking something, and purses his lips together. "We will need supplies. Quills, ink, paper."

Daniel flusters momentarily and flushes. He has known from the stroke weight and style depicted by the writing in Rahd'ni's journal that the D'ni language is a script written in quill; he had not been expecting to write it himself. As such, he is without the required supplies and not entirely certain where, on such a technologically advanced city as Atlantis, he will ever find a quill or pot of ink for himself. The archeologist wonders briefly and hopefully if perhaps Teyla's people might be able to offer a supply of suitable supplies.

"Um. Let me work on that one," Jackson replies sheepishly.

"You've got time, Doc," Sheppard pipes up, fiddling with his crutches.

Rahd'ni glances to him, his face abruptly ashen and pale, but the colonel smiles warmly in a rather disarmingly familiar smirk that eases the man visibly as Sheppard announces, "Radek asked me this morning to ask if you'd join him in the labs. He's been buggin' me since last night. He's dying to ask you about how those books work." He pauses, biting his lip uncertainly before asking, "You remember Radek, right?"

"Please. I suffer from serious cranial trauma, not stupidity," the man snaps in such familiar snark that it thrills all gathered at the table for but the briefest of moments before he cows himself once more and whispers, "I am sorry. Forgive me."

"It's okay, Rahd'ni, really, it is." Sheppard assures him as he clambers to his feet, shrugging off the incident as best he can to keep from frightening or offending the stranger that is Rahd'ni. "C'mon. Let's get heading down to the lab before Radek chews my head off."

"Of course." Rahd'ni rises and bows his head stiffly and formally. "Thank-you for the company."

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Rahd'ni breathes a sigh of relief as soon as he and Sheppard are safely out of the dining hall. It is difficult to force himself to be so still and so at ease amid so many people, and the unease creeps back into him when he finds the halls to be just as crowded. D'ni had been a bustling metropolis in the rock, but the people of Atlantis are innumerable by compare after so many years alone in the dim, watery twilight of the ancient city. They seem to infest every tiny scrap of space to this city, occupying every nook and cranny, or at least the few places where Sheppard deigns to escort him. They clamor and pulse, moving with such haste that Atlantis seems less a bustling city and more a jostling ant colony. It is fortunate, then, that Sheppard's route to the lab is swift and direct indeed, and even more fortunate when Rahd'ni notes that the lab is occupied only by a few, scant individuals.

Rahd'ni is instantly put back at ease upon seeing the lab its self. The place is clearly designed for function over form, with several long tables set at an appropriate height for both leaning over and sitting before at one of the many stools. The lab is furnished with computer terminals of both Atlantis's native technology and something a bit clunky in nature by compare- quite obviously the human technology. Many work stations are cluttered with tools, half-finished projects, and books filled with paper notes.

To the far side, stands a tall, upright board of a white, plastic material that draws Rahd'ni close. He surveys the object with great care. Tiny, rounded dimples here and there mar the otherwise smooth surface beneath a rather intricate assortment of drawings upon the surface in blue and black ink denoting equations and quick sketches relating to some simple wormhole theory. He smiles warmly at the thing but notes a small error amid the many computations. Rahd'ni silently reaches down to the steel well at the base to select a marker and correct the error before adding a few swift annotations to complete the series.

Someone – Sheppard – clears his throat behind Rahd'ni rather pointedly, drawing his attention; Rahd'ni flushes and sets the marker back in its place. "Forgive me."

"No, it's alright," Sheppard back peddles quickly. "I just… I didn't want you to think you had to get caught back up in work so fast. Doc's orders say you're supposed to be taking it easy."

Rahd'ni purses his lips together in a petulant scowl. "Correcting a childish mistake in near basic calculation hardly constitutes work."

The colonel puts his hands up in concession. "Yeah, yeah. Just doing what the doc tells me."

"As I recall, Dr. Keller had similar orders for you." Rahd'ni smirks coyly, folding his arms across his chest, and he simpers smoothly, "Wheeling about the city as my personal escort does not seem fitting with her orders for bed rest and relaxing."

Sheppard flusters and struggles briefly to find a good response. Years ago, he and Rodney had sparred verbally day in and day out, even during rather dire and somewhat inappropriate situations. He is unaccustomed to summoning up a joking barb worthy of McKay's sarcasm and mildly afraid that anything he might say would offend this strange creature masquerading about in Rodney McKay's body.

Instead, the colonel swallows his pride, shrugs, and flatly states, "Fair enough." He turns his wheelchair about and calls to the far side of the lab, "Radek, he's all yours!"

Rahd'ni watches him go and turns his attention to the other side of the lab, to the wiry little man approaching. He bows his head in a slight downward inclination, a subtle dip to show his respect. It is but a small gesture of respect for a man who, according to what he has gathered, is of equal if not higher social rank to him. Rahd'ni does not trust these people yet enough to show any more courtesy than that which is required in the most basic of decorum.

There is an odd moment where neither man says a word, unsure of how to address the other, before Rahd'ni dares break the uncomfortable silence. "What can I do for you, Radek?"

"Oh, ah, yes of course," the smaller man stutters out, flying into action to gather up a few things and spill them out on the table before Rahd'ni. "Uh… let us get started, yes?"

Rahd'ni forces himself to smile. "Yes."

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_**Evidence catalogue 43**_

_Item is a small scrap of vellum measuring less than one (1) inch in height and two and a quarter (2.25) inches in width. The item was recovered by Grand Master Derentheni from Rahd'ni's personage upon his rescue and subsequent arrival in D'ni. It is penned in an alien language in the bookworlder Rahd'ni's hand - a language strikingly similar to that initially exhibited by the Lady Ti'ana, as well as series of seven symbols to the side of each entry. It appears to be a list, with several of the entries hastily crossed out. Item has been assessed Grand Master Jadaris, Guild Master Keelehn and Guild Captain Minkata of the Guild of Maintainers to verify th__e authenticity of this document, as well as myself to verify the identity of the author from writing comparison._

_After further inquiry from Lord R'hira, the item was presented to me for study. What follows is my personal translation, witnessed and verified by both Rahd'ni and the Lady Ti'ana._

_"M3Y-465_

_M3Y-565_

_M44-5YN _

_M6R-125_

_M7G-677_

_M7"_

_The last entry has been ripped partially, beyond the ability to accurately provide translation, but the letter and numeral suggest an entry similar to or identical to the prior entries. These entries fit no cipher known to the Guild Library, nor to Lady Ti'ana, nor to Rahd'ni._

_The symbols remain intriguing. According to Rahd'ni, they have no direct translation. Rahd'ni has referred to them vaguely as "addresses" but does not seem to bear any recollection as to what he had intended with these entries, nor any means to explain an associated coordinate system in D'ni. __Grand Master Derentheni of the Guild of Healers assures me that this is to be expected of a body and mind that has suffered to the length that Rahd'ni has and which has not been granted the time to properly mend. __The symbols are in no language nor geographic code known to the Guild of Linguists nor the Guild of Cartographers._

_This is my final summary on the item.__ Further detailed analysis logs can be viewed upon request._

_-Grand Master Gihran of the Guild of Linguists._

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By the close of the first week, Rahd'ni is thoroughly exhausted. Dr. Jackson and Radek consume his day entirely. His mornings are spent detailing the D'ni culture, while his afternoons are spent in the labs with Radek, discussing and debating the various technological merits of the D'ni. His only small comfort is returning to the infirmary at the end of the day for the fleeting touches and serene smiles of Dr. Keller, although he cannot bring himself to admit that to her, not without knowing who she truly is, without knowing who he is.

In time, Rahd'ni finds that Radek is an eager and worldly intelligent man, one who Rahd'ni must mentally – but most assuredly not verbally - concede is worthy of his mettle. He asks many questions and difficult ones at that, so many that Rahd'ni wonders if, perhaps, Dr. Jackson's inquiries of government seem almost infantile by compare. He presses and digs, rooting for the individual factors in detail before assembling the components into a semblance of the Whole. Even the great Lady Ti'ana would have approved of Radek's insatiable curiosity and the method to his investigation.

Many of Radek's questions are valid, yet laughable in their simplicity. Upon returning the special lenses to Rahd'ni, he inquires about their use and design. Rahd'ni turns the goggles over in his hands, marveling himself at the now lost elegant and subtle engineering of D'ni craftsmen. He explains that these are the tools of the Surveyors and the Miners, made of a durable enough material to shield and protect the eyes from any hazardous debris, demonstrating the tight custom fit to his own head to prevent contact with irritating dust. He summarizes briefly the various functions of the Miners and Surveyors, from expanding D'ni to serving as explorers.

However, some of Radek's questions are difficult and nearly impossible to answer. For example, towards the close of that particular day, the Czech carefully produces a heavily vaulted box and unlocks it to reveal the linking book Rahd'ni left behind during his hasty retreat from the Lantean beach back to D'ni. Without saying a thing, Radek reverently places the leather bound tome in Rahd'ni's waiting hands, allowing the man to turn the book over in his hands. He cracks the spine gently and surveys the linking panel displaying the Book Room of the Guild House, well aware that the scientist is staring at the glowing image in deserved awe.

Rahd'ni closes the book and sets it down upon the table, waiting for Radek to speak; when he does, it is in a soft utterance that sounds almost a prayer. "This is….. just incredible."

"Indeed," Rahd'ni agrees in earnest, feeling his heart swell and warm with pride. "The D'ni called it 'the Art.'" He smiles serenely, stroking the leather cover with the just the tips of fingers before breathing, "It is, you know? A sophisticated combination of both science and aesthetics to produce a stable Age."

"Stable?"

Rahd'ni nods. "Yes. Stable."

Radek furrows his brow. "Stable, how?"

"An unstable Age is one prone to self-destruction, generally a world close to either its inception-" he pauses, a darkness flickering across his gaze mingled with what appears to be a liberal dose of grief. "-Or demise." He purses his lips but momentarily before continuing, "An unstable Age is any age which has uncertain properties, potentially making it highly dangerous for even mere visitation."

"And these…. unstable Ages… do they occur frequently?" Radek inquires, his mind clearly nearly as constant a whir as Rahd'ni's own.

Rahd'ni shakes his head. "The occurrence of an unstable Age is not a common one, not with careful planning and writing to involve hazardous elements within the structure of the Age and contradiction within the text. Very often, minor accidental errors within the text of an Age are simply corrected without further issue. Occasionally, a text is so distorted that it warrants destroying, but that very rarely occurs accidentally."

"What about intentionally?"

Rahd'ni tightens slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Radek had known Rodney McKay for too long before his disappearance not to spot the tension. The Czech holds his breath. He has crossed a line somehow, broached something ill with Rahd'ni. In the past, he would have simply waited for Rodney to browbeat him with a barrage of insults against his character and intelligence, yet this is not the same Rodney McKay, leaving Radek at a loss for how to resolve this minor transgression.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but Rahd'ni cuts him off before Radek can say anything, grinding out through his teeth, "To create or trade in an illicit Age is a very serious crime."

It is this statement which Sheppard arrives, wheeling slowly through the doorframe. The coldness, the distance to Rahd'ni's voice and the blanched pallor to Radek's expression gives him pause, and, as neither man has noted his presence, he hangs back, lingering at the entryway, curious. The Rodney McKay of old would be simpering and swearing by now, but this careful, cautious creature reins himself in, holding tight to what is most assuredly an unhealthy dose of emotions meant for venting. What emotions and stemming from what incidences, Sheppard can only guess.

Radek flummoxes at the abrupt curtness. "My apologies." He pauses for a moment, musing on the sudden shift in Rahd'ni's previously congenial attitude. "I take it others have… in the past?"

Rahd'ni nods slowly and carefully. "Indeed."

"To what outcome?" the Czech presses.

Sheppard sits a little straighter in his chair, pricking his ears to the conversation, no matter how wrong it might feel to eavesdrop. His curiosity is piqued, certainly. Rahd'ni has concealed much of his personal life in D'ni from even Sheppard, and the colonel is legitimately intrigued by these small, fleeting glimpses into what seems Rahd'ni's honest experiences in that vast, lonely cavern.

"Intentionally illicit Ages are stricken from D'ni and burned in an incinerator by the Maintainers." Rahd'ni prods at nothing on the table, a nervous gesture, surely. "Destroyed before the Age might destabilize any further."

"And the creators of these worlds?" Radek inquires, his curiosity honestly piqued by the subject.

Suddenly, Rahd'ni's entire body language and facial expression shifts from one of simmering irritation and patronizing that had previously occupied his features to one of a cold sorrow. "Writing an Age, creating an Age, is not the same as creating a world. It is establishing the link." Rahd'ni muses solemnly. "To think otherwise, to confuse linking with true creation, is beyond criminal."

Radek swallows and nods slowly. He has crossed some great gulf in understanding in the vast gray field where science, social customs, and ethics blur together, out in the wild blue yonder with stem cell research and genetic manipulation. He reminds himself, when faced with this coldness, that, as Rahd'ni has mentioned, the craft of creating these incredible books is an art to the D'ni man that Rodney McKay has become. Radek wills himself to recall not to be so cavalier in the future in regards to these subjects.

Tactfully, Radek attempts to steer the conversation away from such a touchy issue. "How are these books for writing Ages created?"

"I cannot tell you." The words are muttered hotly under Rahd'ni's breath, accompanied by a quick, curt shake of his head.

Radek raises an eyebrow. "Cannot, or will not?"

"Cannot," Rahd'ni repeats firmly, perhaps _too _firmly, icing over as he does. As Radek stares, the guildsman sighs and shakes his head once more, a quick, curt toss. "The manufacture of both books and ink are carefully guarded secrets of the Guild of Book Makers and the Guild of Ink Makers, neither of which divulged the information to me during my stay in D'ni."

Radek blinks at the stern explanation and catches Sheppard's eye, begging for silent reprieve, which is swiftly granted by the colonel. "Come on, Rahd'ni. Dinner awaits."

Rahd'ni turns slowly, glancing warily over his shoulder before visibly calming. "Of course." He looks to Radek, staring down his nose at the shorter man as he gathers his things and stuffs them in his knapsack

2. "We will continue this another time, then, yes?" It is said less as a question and more as an order; Radek nods, freeing Rahd'ni to return his attention to Sheppard and replace his expression with one of serene calm. "Shall we?"

Sheppard nods and forces a smile, although it is uncomfortable at best. "Yeah."

The two move towards the mess hall at a leisurely place, practically strolling along the promenades, one on wheels and one on foot. Atlantis is beautiful at this hour, utterly tranquil and relaxing. The sea shimmers in radiant gold as the last remnants of daylight dance sparkle atop the low, rolling waves. The sun burns a crisp red against a warmly orange sky to the west, while soft, blue twilight approaches steadily from the east, replete with lavender sky and clouds kissed blushing pink. Atlantis herself seems suspended in time some glorious, dreamy place halfway between day and night.

Perhaps lulled by the atmosphere, Rahd'ni dares break the silence as they walk. "I am sorry for the display you just saw."

Sheppard blinks but, upon seeing no sense in lying, admits, "I didn't think you saw me."

"Regardless, my behavior was appalling at the least."

Sheppard frowns and shakes his head. No matter how often he hears Rodney McKay apologize, it still seems so very wrong. Rodney McKay apologizes to no man, yet Rahd'ni clearly does and often.

The colonel shrugs it off. "Seems like something important to you."

"Indeed," Rahd'ni murmurs distantly, his eyes taking a dark shadow.

Sheppard rolls along, holding his breath for a moment before offering, "Want to talk about it?"

"Is that all you people ever do?" the man snaps bitterly, waving his hands in clear exasperation. "Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk." He scowls, rubbing his forehead. "It is a wonder that you people ever accomplish anything around here." Sheppard snickers under his breath at that, to which Rahd'ni fumes, "What?"

"It's nothing. It's just… you used to be the most talkative person here. A regular little chatter box."

Rahd'ni stops dead in his tracks, tensing visibly once more, his fist clenching at his side as he snarls under his breath, "I'm sorry I'm not what everyone _wants _me to be."

Sheppard flushes visibly. "Rod- Rahd'ni…" He stammers, struggling to be sure to say the right thing, although all the words feel wrong, gummy and thick in his throat. "Rahd'ni, you don't have to be anything for anyone." When the other man rolls his eyes, Sheppard persists. "Seriously. We just…. we missed you – we all did. And, it's just weird seeing you so… so…."

"So what?" Rahd'ni barks.

The colonel's heart stutters slightly, and he looks down in his own shame, unable to face Rahd'ni's sharp, accusing gaze when faced so blatantly with the truth. "So different."

Rahd'ni huffs but seems somewhat satisfied with the answer, stepping forward without further outward complaint. Sheppard gives pause for a moment to swallow his guilt. They had been hunting for so long for the old Rodney, hoping and holding their collective breaths for years, so much so that no one had ever dared entertain the possibility that the man that returned to them would not be the Rodney McKay they remembered. He, perhaps, had done this more than any other, likely in the vain aspirations that this whole episode of his cosmic scaled failure could be forgiven or even ignored.

Even now, in the wake of Rahd'ni's return to Atlantis, Sheppard has hoped that Keller and her team could find some way to unlock the lost memories of Rodney McKay. They have each pressed, in their own way, to root out the old Rodney McKay possibly trapped in this shell, so desperate for their friend that they all have forgotten that Rodney McKay is not a man to be pressured into anything willingly. It is only logical that, when met by such opposition, Rahd'ni would eventually dig his heels in and balk or snap as he is now.

"Well?" Rahd'ni's voice cracks like a whip, cutting through Sheppard's mental chastising with a chiding, patronizing tone. "Are you coming?"

Sheppard jerks to attention and wheels swiftly after Rahd'ni. The guildsman moves with a sharp cadence to his strides, a clip that sounds somehow bitter in his anger. Yet, despite that, Rahd'ni moves purposefully slower, enough that the colonel easily keeps pace with him. It is an odd juxtaposition of the childishness of the old Rodney McKay and the quiet care of Rahd'ni.

The colonel heaves solemnly, "The docs like to say that talking about things makes people feel better."

At first, John thinks Rahd'ni is valiantly and rather spitefully ignoring him, but, then the stranger speaks once more, in a whisper so hushed that Sheppard nearly does not catch. "I knew _them_." The word is spoken with such a thick disdain that it sounds a profanity. "Or so the Council's investigation suggests."

"Who?" John asks hesitantly, almost afraid to cross Rahd'ni further now that he has opened ever so slightly.

"Veovis and A'Gaeris," Rahd'ni hisses cruelly through his teeth, shaking his head. "This was before I arrived in D'ni proper, and certainly before anything I can recall." He spits venomously, "Bastards kept me like their pet."

Sheppard waits while Rahd'ni collects himself and gathers his thoughts once more before the man speaks. This is a different and open side to Rahd'ni in regards to his time in D'ni, and Sheppard is ready to hear, regardless of what Rahd'ni might have to say. A part of his mind screams that it is perverse masochism that drives his need to know, so that he may further regret and loathe himself for the mistake of even losing Rodney in the first place.

"I do not remember any of my time in their captivity, but I can be sure it was… unpleasant at best." Sheppard nods, his gaze straying to the scars upon Rahd'ni's once smooth, pristinely manicured hands as the man goes on. "I dream of it, sometimes. Not in anything clear enough to remember, mind you, but in fragments large enough to know I was suffering in their grasp. Physically, mentally, and emotionally"

The words rush out of the colonel's mouth before he can bite his tongue. "Rahd'ni, I'm sorry. We tried everything we could to find you."

Rahd'ni shakes his head. "Lady Ti'ana found me. She saved me. She found A'Gaeris's journal and translated what she could of it." Rahd'ni shudders visibly. "He was quite thorough. In it, he documented his precise methods of controlling me, of bending me and breaking me to his will, to behave like his perfect little pet. The beatings, the starving, the punishments, sleep deprivation, and intense isolation." He swallows a thick lump in his throat, turns and glares at the colonel. "So, you will excuse me if I am hard pressed to conform myself to behave however it is you want me to."

"I'm sorry," Sheppard repeats once more. "Really, I am."

"Sure," Rahd'ni simpers, glowering at the man as his side and folding his arms across his chest in an entirely childish display.

They saw nothing for a long moment before Sheppard pipes up once more. "Look, Rahd'ni, I'll level with you." When the guildsman raises an eyebrow, the colonel explains, "I've been trying. We all have. It's just…."

"What?"

Sheppard shrugs and looks away, averting his gaze sheepishly. "These days, no one knows if we're coming or going with you." When Rahd'ni grimaces, the colonel smirks and teases, "Look, maybe if you shared something with the group, maybe, just maybe, we'd have some kind of idea of how we should be treating you."

"As any other man of rank," the guildsman replies with heavy consternation.

"Humor me."

Rahd'ni taps the railing with his fingertips and gives a bob of his head. "Alright, alright." He chews his lip and, then, issues the proviso, "One thing. Just one thing, and there we let this go." Sheppard is unsurprised by the all too McKay-like ultimatum, and, so, Rahd'ni baits, "What do you want to know?"

There is so much Sheppard wants to know, so much that he knows the man is unlikely to remember, granted Keller's assessment of Rahd'ni; his mind still reeling at the many possibilities, he blurts out, "Tell me about them, then. About the people that did this to you."

"A'Gaeris and Veovis?" Rahd'ni murmurs before admitting callously, "I know only as much about them as I have been told through colored perspectives. Veovis was one of the finest of Writers D'ni had ever seen, and he threw it all away. Everything." Rahd'ni's voice is strained as he works to rein himself back into some semblance of the same dour control he has attempted to maintain for so long. "Lady Ti'ana had explained to me once that Veovis hated her husband, Master Aitrus, for his betrayal of their blood and their culture, a crime that Veovis could never forgive."

"I don't…." Sheppard furrows his brow as he trails off, unable to follow these fractured, scattered data points of whatever it is that Rahd'ni wishes to convey.

"Lady Ti'ana was ahrotahntee, like me. She was, you would say…. outside of D'ni blood." Rahd'ni's features melt ever so slightly as he recalls the woman he once had the honor of calling friend. "She came from the surface world." He smirks, ever so slightly in his nostalgia. "Walked right down the Path and into D'ni." Rahd'ni shakes his head and blinks, turning away from Sheppard to hide the prickling at his eyes. "She was like no other in D'ni. She was a tremendous woman of great strength and heart, but even that could never be good enough for Veovis. He could never trust an outsider like Lady Ti'ana. He and Aitrus had once been great friends, but, when Master Aitrus took Lady Ti'ana's hand, it put a rift between them. Lady Ti'ana said that when Master Aitrus taught her to Write, to Write a proper D'ni Age, it proved too much for Veovis."

Rahd'ni pauses and turns at a window facing out over the glittering Lantean Sea; Sheppard swallows and dares inquire further, "What happened?"

Rahd'ni shrugs oddly. "According to Master Aitrus and Lady Ti'ana, after their falling out, he fell into A'Gaeris's snare. A'Gaeris had been accused of several crimes many years ago, stripped of his guild rank and title, and his betrothal broken off. He wanted to bring the Council and the Guilds, to destroy them as they had destroyed him. A'Gaeris framed both Master Aitrus and Veovis. He brought evidence to both suggesting that the other engaged in the trade of illicit Ages, persuading both that he had changed and wanted to prove his worth with this evidence and regain some of his lost dignity." He shakes his head tersely. "Neither one was. It was A'Gaeris. It always was."

The abrupt coldness to Rahd'ni's tone sends shivers down the colonel's spine. Sheppard flashes back to the terse conversation he had overhead between Rahd'ni and Radek, to the seriousness of the offense against D'ni culture to intentionally create and traffic a singular illicit Age, let alone any other.

"After two of the Maintainers went missing, a search of the Ages found that they had been murdered and left in one of Veovis's Ages, butchered with Veovis's dagger. This was, of course, A'Gaeris's handiwork, but the evidence pointed directly to Veovis. Coupled with the evidence of his apparent trade in illicit Ages, brought forth by Master Aitrus as orchestrated by A'Gaeris, the Council could not help but render a guilty verdict." Rahd'ni bites his lip and looks out listlessly upon the sea, finding some small measure of comfort and solace there.

"What did they do to him?"

Rahd'ni sighs heavily and almost mournfully. "It is not in the D'ni nature to perform executions. Veovis was sentenced to live out the rest of his natural life in exile on a Prison Age. It is an Age which only harbors a single man, the condemned, kept by the Maintainers and cut away from the D'ni as a cancer."

"Just like that?" Icy tendrils snake about Sheppard's heart, but he must know. "They just left him there?"

"Just like that," Rahd'ni repeats firmly. "It is the D'ni way." Rahd'ni turns and spies the horror clearly written on Sheppard's face to consider such a fate as to be marooned on a distant world without any companionship or supplies, and Rahd'ni blanches and blurts out, "Oh, do not misunderstand. The D'ni were not inhumane. The Maintainers tended to his needs, linking supplies on a regular schedule, and prisoners have always been provided with a linking book back to a secured Book Room in the Hall of Maintainers should they require emergency assistance. But, it did not matter. He did not stay there for long."

"A'Gaeris?" Sheppard ventures.

"Got it in one." Rahd'ni folds his arms across his chest and puffing up somewhat. "The so-called _Philosopher_ had another in his pocket who loathed ahrotahntee perhaps as much as he; Suahrnir of the Maintainers. With his help, freeing Veovis from his Prison Age was a trifling matter."

"Where did you fall into this?"

Rahd'ni shakes his head. "I do not know. After that, Veovis and A'Gaeris went into hiding to continue their plotting and preparation.

They stand in silence once more before John says, "If you don't mind me asking…"

"Hrm?" Rahd'ni hardly even addresses the statement.

Sheppard swallows. "What happened then? To D'ni, to all of it?"

Rahd'ni closes his eyes. "_They _happened." He shakes his head once more, changing his mind. "_She _happened. After everything had been said and done, the Council and the Lords sentenced Veovis to death, but Lady Ti'ana spoke out for him. She had found the evidence that Veovis had been framed in the pages of A'Gaeris's journal. She felt…. _sorry _for him, even after how Veovis had attacked her family. I was still too grievously injured to give testimony or even be present, but I am told she was most persuasive. She must have been, for the Council agreed not to put Veovis to death but to pen an Age specifically for him and, then, destroy the book for the Age immediately after linking him there. Four writers wrote the Age in separate portions, never viewing the whole body of the Age. Only Grand Master Ja'ir of the Writers, Grand Master Jadaris of the Maintainers, and Lord R'hira were privy to the entire text, and they were three of the most trustworthy men in D'ni. Once it was completed, Veovis was sent through, and the Age was immediately incinerated."

"Then how? How could they do all that if he was trapped on a Prison Age?" Sheppard questions, his curiosity piqued.

Rahd'ni awkwardly shifts his weight. "Despite the fact that Veovis's Prison Age was destroyed, a single book of commentary was penned with but one entry regarding Veovis's linking and the subsequent destruction of the book." He sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, as though pained by these memories as much physically as he clearly aches emotionally. "Master Jadaris commented that there seemed an after image of Veovis upon his linking."

"Like he didn't… link?"

Rahd'ni sniffs hotly. "Oh, it's certain he linked through to his Prison. No, there can be no doubting that, not with as trustworthy of witnesses as there were upon record for the expulsion." He frowns, a deep expression that creases fine lines in his face that had not been there before Rodney vanished, testimony to the years that have slipped away. "Master Jadaris pondered that it was the cause of a subtle but not disastrous incongruity to the text. No Age had ever been penned as such, and, despite the care taken to craft Veovis's Prison Age, Master Jadaris felt it possible that this was simply a tiny fault in the Age, nothing of grave concern." Rahd'ni snorts at the irony and shakes his head, tousling his long hair. "Pft! Nothing, indeed."

Sheppard furrows his brow. It is a puzzle, a logic game, and, despite his outward appearance as little more than a flyboy jock, Sheppard is a deep lover of such mind-teasers. Word puzzles, Rubix cubes, Sudoku, the works. However, his understanding of these D'ni Ages and their mechanics is too limited to make anything resembling an educated guess as to how Veovis and A'Gaeris could have perpetrated an escape as clever as that, with or without the help of whoever that Suahrnir person was.

Unencumbered by any expectations and distracted by Rahd'ni's tale, the colonel does not notice that they have easily slipped back into their old roles until he rolls his eyes and ventures, "Well, then, if you're as smart as you keep saying, how'd they do it?"

"I can only guess, based on what I would have done." His tone is resigned and hollowed.

"Alright, then, what would you have done in their shoes?"

Rahd'ni respires in long, slow draws, the controlling respiration of a man composing himself, clearly quite deeply unsettled by the supposition. "A'Gaeris was a skilled Writer before his fall. Not nearly as skilled as Veovis, certainly, but a guildsman of great promise. With the precise composition, A'Gaeris could have created a link from any other Age directly to the cell which held the book. With absolutely perfect timing, it could be done, and the after image may very well have been A'Gaeris in the disguise linking through after Veovis with a linking book to…. well…. anywhere."

The colonel bites his lip and comments, "You sound like you've through this through."

Rahd'ni remains nonplussed, even as he issues a rather cutting barb. "I've had time enough to consider all the options and eliminate the less likely possibilities." Rahd'ni turns to him and glowers his eyes glistening with unshed tears in the last light of day. "There. We spoke of it. Your people say talking about things helps? Nonsense. The D'ni are dead and gone, and talking about it will do nothing to bring them back. It only hurts."

The question burns in the back of Sheppard's mind, a bright, searing flame penetrating deep into his heart and twisting as a knife blade there, embedding its self down to the core. Why Rodney? A'Gaeris and Veovis had kept him, but to what end? The two sound as though they had been capable enough to accomplish the destruction of D'ni without McKay's help. Sheppard shuddered to think of it. With the genius of Rodney McKay held at their mercy, there is no telling what sorts of horrors they may have dealt. And, then, Sheppard knows, with crystalline certainty ringing through him. He will not ask that question, not ever, because he already knows the answer. Whatever happened to the D'ni, Rodney McKay played some part in it, perhaps small but more probably grand, before torture and injury gave way to Rahd'ni.

"Are we through here?"

"Yeah." Sheppard nods, somehow numbed by the familiarly of this once more and simultaneously horrified by the man before him. "Thanks, Rahd'ni." The colonel forces out past an uncomfortable lump lodged quite firmly in his throat, "I mean it." He tries, unsuccessfully to shuffle loose the tightness to his chest and heart and, instead, masks it by clearing his throat and changing the subject. "C'mon, Rahd'ni. Dinner awaits."

Rahd'ni claps Sheppard on the shoulder and smiles awkwardly. "Sounds delightful."

**XXX**

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**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **Yes, it's been a while for any of my stories. Many, many apologies. For those of you who haven't read _The Book of Ti'ana_, I hope this has started to give you some of an idea about the carefully orchestrated downfall of D'ni without giving too much away too soon. I do hope you enjoy, and, I promise, a far more dramatic chapter to follow as soon as I can get it up.


	4. The Ink in the Well

**THE INK IN THE WELL**

_**From the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_My little rock weevil is coming along nicely these last few months, despite his clear reluctance. Of course, he does think himself coy, offering me only what he views as but tiny morsels of technology to appease my whim. A pair of communication devices that remarkably operate over a great distance without direct attachment to one another. A means of tracking motion within a particular range. He seems to see them as nothing more than curiosities on an island as small as this and inhabited only by my modest coterie, but I am certain I can find a use for them in our endeavors._

_What limited leisure time I have allowed my pet, he consumes entirely within a series of copybooks I have so benevolently granted him. I survey his work daily. Naturally, he balks outwardly, claiming that a genius of his caliber does not require someone to check his work as though he were some apprentice, but conversely, he concedes fairly quickly each night. _

_His work is exceptional, there is no doubt. The Age shall be a stable one, to be certain, and one of great beauty. It seems he is nearly ready for his own kortee'nea, but no more of these petty trifles. If I am to offer something as treasured in these trying days as a blank book, then Rodney McKay must offer something far more substantial in return. It is high time for Rodney McKay to earn his keep._

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The meal is a strange, silent, and dreadfully terse affair, uncomfortable for all present and ghastly the opposite of the "delightful" affair as promised by Rahd'ni. It does not begin as such, not entirely. When Sheppard and Rahd'ni arrive at the mess, Teyla and Ronon are already there, seated at the far end of the dining hall. The Athosian rises slightly to wave to the colonel and the guildsman, calling them over. Sheppard and Rahd'ni fix their plates and join the pair. Teyla greets them with a soft, serene smile and a gentle dip of her head, which Rahd'ni stiffly returns.

In days of old, when the four of them gathered this way, the meals were shared with playful banter and jest. Teyla's heart aches for those days, for, although they are together once more, nothing can ever be as it once was. The Athosian watches with an acute pang of nostalgia as Rahd'ni delicately dissects his food, scouring for any trace of citrus products, but she banishes the thought swiftly. The conversation is sparse, limited generally to her own attempts at social pleasantries. Even that is quickly suffocated by an overwhelming sense of wrongness as Dr. Keller arrives.

The doctor glances about the mess hall before spotting the group clustered together and smiles, beaming warmly upon them. As she draws near, though, both Ronon and Rahd'ni rise. She gives pause, her face falling ever so slightly and nervously. The two men exchange a glance, awkward and uncomfortable, unsure of what to do next, while Keller merely flusters where she stands.

It is almost comically and ironically fortunate, then, that all hell breaks loose at that particular moment. Alarms blare through Atlantis as lights flash in sickly red throughout the city. Sirens shriek in piercing blasts, echoing down the corridors as the horrid, high-pitched whine screams past the mess and through the heavens. Rahd'ni feels his heart leap into his chest, but the others seem almost accustomed to this, more annoyed than frightened. Rahd'ni, however, is terrified. He has heard this sound before, somewhere. He knows this sound, heralding approaching death. It is the Wraith.

"Damnit!" John swears, throwing down his fork in disgust. "Can't even finish one meal in peace."

Ronon, however, is calm and composed, moving to Sheppard's side with a swift, cool grace. "Chair?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sheppard mutters under his breath.

Rahd'ni swallows, shaking violently, the undercurrent of fear threatening to drag him down to curl up and hide under the table. "Wait, what about me?" He musters some small measure of courage and stills himself admirably. "I can help."

Sheppard whips about in his wheelchair and points squarely at the guildsman, ordering sternly "You stay here." He then points to Teyla. "Stay with him."

"Of course," the Athosian purrs, dipping her head respectfully to the colonel.

John shakes his head sourly as he departs. "If it isn't one thing it's another."

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By the time Ronon and Sheppard arrive at the chair, several darts have already descended upon the city. Ronon expertly scoops the colonel up from the wheelchair before Sheppard can voice any arguments about it and sets him down gently in the control chair. John would like to argue, truly he would, at being carted about like a child or invalid, but he has no time for such frivolities.

As soon as he comes into full contact with the chair, Atlantis sluggishly summons energy enough to rise up and kiss the back of his consciousness before dragging him down hard into the crushing mental depths of her various systems' demands. John has, in days long past, felt the sensation of initial contact to Atlantis akin to a gently rolling wave washing over him and blanketing him, while he cannot help but see it now as a raging riptide, pulling him under and sweeping him out to a dark, unkind and entirely unforgiving sea. Atlantis's dwindling ZPM power reserves are sapped to near nothingness, and the effect is an entirely overwhelming one each and every time Sheppard is forced to use the chair. Once he is fully submerged in Atlantis's inner workings, John focuses his attention on the battle, attempting valiantly to ignore how appalling lethargic the city's responses to his commands remain. The impossibly ancient and thoroughly drained city is still _trying _for her favorite son, and that is all that matters in the fray.

A small contingent of six Wraith darts screams across the heavens before banking to the side and splitting up before barreling towards the heart of the city. Sheppard's attention flickers between them as Atlantis tracks the enemy vessels and details them for the colonel with ease on the heads-up-display in a language he still does not fully comprehend even after all these years. No matter. After years in the Pegasus galaxy fighting the Wraith, Sheppard has come to realize – well before the science division, a source of great pride for him – that there are more than one type of dart. There are, in fact, no less than four dart types, each distinguishable from the last only by subtle nuances of shape, flight pattern, and function. These particular darts are scouting darts, perhaps the most dangerous type, frequently sent in to both survey a location and test any defenses. Sheppard licks his lips in anticipation; if he does not destroy these here and now, they will undoubtedly report back to their hive that Atlantis is vulnerable and ripe for harvest.

The darts move in a carefully choreographed battle. Sheppard has grown to almost admire the aerial artistry of the Wraith. They swoop down as one yet on separate flight paths and attacking at angles, as bees or hornets in swarm, striking at what must seem in the pilots' eyes to be the most exposed and yet valuable targets. One of the darts even concentrates its firepower on one of the many obvious communications and deep space telemetry towers, marked by several antennae piercing into the skies. Sheppard grits his teeth, knowing that the city cannot afford to lose any of their advanced warning systems considered how little power remains.

Much as Sheppard loathes it, he has no other option. He must use the precious few remaining drones to swiftly dispatch of these errant scouts before they can do any further damage or relay any potentially disastrous intelligence to the hive. Atlantis responds with a nearly pathetic swell of energy as she deploys the drones, spilling the glowing, glittering things into the sky. The lights race about the city, threading nimbly between the towers and rooting out their quarry.

After that, the skirmish is a swift one, the Wraith easily dispatched before any serious damage can be dealt. Despite that, the effect will be lasting, Sheppard is certain. For however brief the attack, it has left the city sapped of both power and the very last cache of drones that they had been saving. They are defenseless now, and it is only a matter of time before the Wraith come again. The Wraith, like any other insect, are resilient creatures that will just keep coming in wave after wave until either they or the Lanteans finally prevail.

However, more concerning is the lingering after images lurking in Sheppard's vision as he deactivates the chair and sits slumped in it, motionless and exhausted, his chest heaving laboriously. The colonel has yet to mention it to the doctors or the science teams, yet it is growing more and more frequent. It is taking progressively longer for Sheppard to resurface from his connection to the city, leaving him increasingly drained with each passing activation of the control chair, no matter how brief.

Ronon, somehow, understands implicitly. He often accompanies Sheppard to the control chair these days, except those times when his services are required elsewhere. He watches from the sideline as the colonel slowly comes back up from the connection. It has not escaped the Satedan's notice that it is taking the Earthling's senses to return him, a worrying aftereffect of the chair. Ronon waits patiently but maintains a comfortable distance; Sheppard does not always react well if approached too swiftly after using the control chair. Only once Sheppard blinks owlishly and appears to truly recognize his surroundings does Ronon draw near to once again wordlessly lifts the colonel up from the control chair and return him gently to the wheelchair.

"Thanks, big guy."

It is all that Sheppard can say. He has never been an emotionally expressive person by nature, often masking his true opinions and feelings with quick whit and sarcastic jest, nor is he a very accepting person for physical assistance or coddling. That quiet, almost curt mention of gratitude is the most Sheppard can muster. Ronon understands completely, for he is of the same mind.

He gives a single nod in return. "Don't mention it."

The Satedan pushes the chair, knowing John is too tired now to propel himself along. Sheppard gives a token protest, but it is short lived and easily quelled under a stern glare from Ronon. Ronon does not bother to ask the colonel where he wishes to go and immediately begins to take him back to his quarters. They have often traveled this way these days, with Ronon shouldering the colonel after another thoroughly tiring battle.

Sheppard balks weakly when he recognizes the familiar route. "No… Rahd'ni."

Ronon nods slowly.

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Teyla and Rahd'ni sit in silence after the battle, the quiet broken only by Jeruth's soft mewls from her customary perch atop the man's shoulder. Both rise when Sheppard and Ronon return in the quiet, almost tranquil wake of the battle. The guildsman fidgets nervously, stilling himself and flushing when the others stare almost pointedly at him. He drops his gaze, both embarrassed and unable to summon forth the courage to meet the stern gazes of these strong, proud, defiant creatures.

"Sorry, Rahd'ni," Sheppard breathes, clearly exhausted.

The guildsman licks his lips nervously. "The Wraith?"

"Yes," the colonel replies.

Without lifting his gaze, Rahd'ni fumbles with his knapsack for a moment. He pries his journal from the bag and flips through the pages, his eyes skimming over the notes with ease. Finally, he pauses and tears out a single page, thrusting it into Sheppard's hand. It is a fairly detailed and lovely drawing of Atlantis, adorned here and there with notes in a mix of D'ni, Ancient, and English.

Rahd'ni swiftly explains with all the bluster and pride of Rodney McKay, "One of the sensors in the array is damaged, yielding a decreased radius of range and minor errors in triangulation. I have marked it here-" he jabs the elegant scroll of D'ni script about one of the antennae and then to a rather large body of Ancient text "-and provided you with the necessary programming adjustments here to accommodate for the error and bypass any further issues it may cause."

Sheppard looks up, trying to meet Rahd'ni's eyes. "Thank you, Rahd'ni. I mean it."

"It is nothing," the man blurts out.

"No, really. Thank you."

Rahd'ni says nothing, but the Lanteans can spy the faintest of hints of the old McKay pride to the light in his eyes, shielded by a forced modesty. They take heart in it, for it means that Rodney McKay is alive and well in Rahd'ni. He is only hiding.

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_**From the testimony of Veovis**_

_I still have not come to realize A'Gaeris's full intent when considering the outsider, nor shall I ever. He kept his matters regarding the outsider, Rodney McKay, to himself, and I did not concern myself with his project save to express my very clear objection to his teaching the outside our ancient Art. Outsiders such as Rodney McKay and Lady Ti'ana pollute both out noble blood and sound reasoning. Rodney McKay's presence was a contradiction, a direct affront against everything we held true. Should he have miraculously succeeded in creating a stable link to the world of his origin, there was no telling what manners of retaliation he might bring down upon us However, A'Gaeris assured me that Rodney McKay would never be allowed to complete his Age so long as he lived._

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The alterations go swiftly once Rahd'ni's page reaches Radek's hands. In truth, the Czech is surprised. Three degrees is such a minute amount of damage to the antennae that it is amazing that Rahd'ni had noticed at all, let alone when on swift approach in one of the jumpers. In fact, it is such a small margin of error that none of the science team has ever noticed the error. It takes only a few short hours to reprogram the long range sensors following Rahd'ni's exacting specifications and coding corrections.

Radek breathes a sigh of relief when the job is finished and reboots the long range sensors. However, that relief is entirely short lived when he sees what the increased sensor range yields. He blinks, unsure at first if what he sees is real. Radek's heart thunders in his chest, sending the blood rushing to his head and roaring in his ears, but he must focus, checking his own work and Rahd'ni's for any errors.

He gulps and reaches for the radio at his ear; there is no mistake.

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An incessant chirping awakens Sheppard from an exceedingly deserved, deep slumber. At first, he crushes his eyes shut and resolves to ignore the caller, rolling over as best as he can granted the cumbersome weight of the cast and tugging the blankets over his head. The beeping continues unabated. Sheppard groans, throwing the covers off without even opening his eyes. There is somewhat of an unspoken agreement in the city that, after any use of the control chair, the user is left to sleep it off uninterrupted. As his radio keeps sounding, Sheppard sighs and picks up the thing.

He growls, "This had better be important."

"I'm afraid it is, Colonel," Radek blurts out, his voice urgent and trembling in a way that jolts Sheppard awake. "Would please come to the control room?"

Sheppard nods slowly. "Yeah, sure. Let me just…"

"Ronon is already on his way," the Czech announces hastily.

"I'm not an invalid," the colonel grouses bitterly.

"So I am aware," Radek states firmly. "But time is of the essence."

Sheppard furrows his brow. "What's going on?"

"Sir, please, I'd really prefer we'd discuss this when you can see for yourself."

It does not matter. There is already a chime at the door, signalling Ronon's arrival. The colonel thinks the door open, amazed that the city is still able to answer his mental call. Sure enough, the Satedan stands hulking in the doorframe. Ronon smirks, his arms folded across his chest as though ready for the colonel to bawk or fight.

He shakes his head. "On my way."

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A swarm of chaos and confusion greets Sheppard when they arrive at the control room. Scientists flutter this way and that, along with several of his men. There seems to be a tizzy of activity about one console, and, as Sheppard draws closer, he spies both Woolsey and Radek peering down nervously at the long range sensors. Radek immediately gestures for the colonel to come and join them in their survey of whatever lies in wait in deep space.

Ronon moves swiftly, efficiently and effortlessly guiding the colonel's wheelchair through the bustling engineers and scientists to them. Sheppard is torn. He wants to feel offended and perhaps a bit ashamed that the Satedan wordlessly does this for him. However, he is also incredibly grateful. The evening's exersions has left him feeling decidedly worn and raw. Sheppard says nothing but nods to the burly Satedan thankfully.

"So, what's got all your panties in a bunch this late?" He quips, desperate to hide his own exhaustion.

Radek is frowning, his features pinched in displeasure; he pressed upon either side to the bridge of his nose, as though battling back a migraine as he explains, "Rahd'ni's adjustments have nearly doubled long range sensors capacity. This was our prior range, and this-" he presses something on the console, and the field of view expands dramatically "-is our current range." The Czech stabs out at the screen, scowling as he points to the far range of the array's capabilities. "That…. is problem."

Sheppard furrows his brow and peers at where the scientist stares so intently. At the far end of their particular slice of the universe, lurking just beyond the range of the sensor array before Rahd'ni's adjustments, several ships are gathering. His eyes go wide to realize that it is an armada, collecting and swelling in size. There are several large vessels, hives by the look of it, along with countless smaller ships, likely darts. Sheppard's throat goes dry at the thoughts. It is an army of Wraith, just lurking out there in the vast depths of Pegasus space.

"What are they doing out there?" Sheppard asks.

Radek's frown deepens. "Nothing." When the colonel glances up to him, Radek sighs and shakes his head. "They are not moving; they are just…. waiting."

"How long have they been there?"

"I do not know," Radek admits softly, hesitantly as though keeping something from him. "There is no way to tell."

Sheppard reconsiders the recent activity, taking this information into account, and his heart clenches. The Wraith have come faithfully every six or seven weeks over the course of the last year, making regularly attack runs and sweeps over the city in. Radek may not wish to admit it, but the Wraith have been lying in wait just beyond their range of notice for the last year, likely aware of this sensory limitation. They have remained there sending out pathetic squadrons of darts – kamakazi pilots, Sheppard now understands – to test Atlantis's capabilities conservatively across the relative safety of space. Slowly, but surely, they have systematically whittled away at the Lanteans' paltry reserves of darts and ZPM power. The next time they come, Atlantis will be defenseless, a fruit ripe for the plucking.

"How long would it take them to get here?"

"If they left now…." Radek runs his fingers through his thinning hair. "At maximum speed…." He pauses, his eyes flickering with mental calculation. "Four weeks. Maybe less, depending."

An uncomfortable silence spans between the Lanteans as they each consider how close to the brink they have been unknowingly skimming along with this new, looming deadline should even one vessel from the Wraith armada begin to approach Atlantis's perimeter. A month. It seems almost impossible that a month is all the time they will have left should the Wraith begin their advance. And, yet, it seems almost appropriate, for, at some point ages ago, this is the same, undeniable truth the Ancients faced when they sank the city, living Atlantis dormant beneath the sea and concealed from the Wraith for centuries.

It is Woolsey who breaches this silent contemplation by sighing and stating simply, "We need those ZPM designs."

"Rahd'ni won't part with them," Sheppard breathes, shaking his head solemnly.

Woolsey speaks softly, carefully choosing his words. "You, of all people, are aware of the severity of this situation. Without a functioning complement of ZPMs, we have no hope of staving off the Wraith."

"I know," the colonel says with a quick bob of his head. "Rahd'ni is still Rodney McKay, and, if I know anyone, that means he's still the most stubborn jackass alive." He sighs, his heart heavy at the thought. "Rahd'ni doesn't trust us. He just doesn't understand that we really _are _his friends, and, until he can wrap his mind around that, he's never going to hand over those designs."

"If we don't get those designs, Atlantis is done for as we know it," Woolsey argues, the lines in his face deepening as he speaks.

It is a cutting, calculated blow meant specifically for Sheppard; the colonel tries to ignore it, pointing out, "That might be the case, but, if we keep pushing Rahd'ni, he's just going to dig his heels in deeper. We can't just outright demand him to fork 'em over."

"I know, Colonel. Believe me, I know. But, I have to think of the welfare of everyone in this city."

"And what about Rahd'ni?" Sheppard barks bitterly, feeling the tiny, throbbing inception of a migraine building and swelling behind his eyes; it has been overdue since he left the chair this afternoon. "What about him?"

Woolsey sighs heavily, looking down and shifting his weight awkwardly. "I'm not as cavalier as you assume me to be. I _am _thinking about Rahd'ni, but I have to think about the rest of the city, as well as the rest of Pegasus. If the Wraith take Atlantis, then we lose all chances of stopping them. I would you think that you, of all people, could appreciate that fact."

"I do."

Woolsey gives a small bob of his head. "Then, get him to hand those designs over to you."

Sheppard glances up as Woolsey leaves them, feeling abruptly quite weary and heavy; he gives his own small sigh and asks Radek, "Let me know if they make any move."

"Absolutely, Colonel."

The colonel rubs his aching forehead and orders, "And somebody get Carson on the line."

"Right away, Colonel," one of the techs pipes up – Kutner, Sheppard thinks, from the sound of the voice.

A broad, warm palm graces Sheppard's shoulder, reassuring in its size and surprisingly gentle touch. The colonel does not even need to look to know to whom the hand belongs. Ronon. The Satedan has said nothing this entire time, blending seamlessly into the background information. He says nothing, even as Sheppard glances over his shoulder and nods. Ronon does not complain, does not argue, but, instead, silently ferries the colonel from the room, understanding implicitly.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The Satedan should take him to the infirmary, judging by how Sheppard hangs his head and compulsively massages his forehead against the breaking migraine, but, instead, he rolls the colonel to his private quarters. Once there, he helps the man from the chair and back to bed. As the colonel arranges himself in as comfortable an arrangement possible granted the bulky cast, Ronon wordlessly fetches a glass of water from the bathroom and the bottle of Excedrin he knows Sheppard has tucked away amid his toiletries specifically for post chair use migraines, returning to hand them both to an exceedingly grateful colonel.

Ronon lingers for a moment, perhaps just a few seconds, as Sheppard swiftly downs two of the pills. The colonel closes his eyes and visibly eases before him, sinking deeply into his bed, as his muscles go pliant. The Satedan knows injuries such as Sheppard's well. He has been the victim of many fractures in his various exploits and, as such, has enjoyed the benefits of a wide variety of medicines. He knows that this seemingly instantaneous response is purely from Sheppard's relief and not from any medicinal effect. He knows the tension in the colonel stems not entirely from his wound and from the mental exertion of the chair but also from the conflict brewing within him. For now, though, once the medication works, it will settle the colonel, stilling his mind as it cuts through the pain, enough to dull the quick of his dilemma.

As Sheppard seems to still, Ronon moves to leave and is stopped only by a soft utterance from the colonel, a single, pained question. "What do I do?"

At first, Ronon is uncertain if the question is addressed to him or if the colonel is asking this of himself. Sheppard is a social extrovert in matters of meeting and greeting other people, but he is highly introverted in personal matters. Ronon has, over the course of these many years, come to see small, fleeting glimpses of the serious, emotional John Sheppard. As such, it gives the Satedan pause while he ponders whether or not to answer. However, Sheppard rolls over and asks nothing more, succumbing instead to slumber's embrace.

Ronon does not return to the quarters he shares with Jennifer; instead, he unconsciously meanders until his feet find their way to the infirmary's observation room. He does not even realize this until he has reached the door. He stares at it intently for a spell, considering the appropriateness of his presence before stepping through and approaching the observation deck.

Below him, Rahd'ni sleeps, insensate to the many social machinations moving about him, as great cogs in a clock. Ronon gazes down upon him, feeling no uncertain measure of discomfort. Rahd'ni looks abruptly small and particularly vulnerable. He lies balled up tightly on his side, his arms wrapped protectively about his chest, as a child might guard themselves against a nightmare. The stark reality smacked harshly at Ronon, for the nightmares had been real, at one point, for Rahd'ni, very real if the scars marring his features are any indication. He twitches in his sleep and curls tighter about himself, likely in the throes of another nightmare. Upon closer inspection, however, Rahd'ni is gasping, his breaths swift and shallow as sweat beads upon his forehead; he is in the midst of a night terror.

Ronon folds his arms across his chest and forces himself to stillness. The Satedan recognizes the symptoms of a night terror in Rahd'ni because he remembers, even after all these years, how Rodney McKay suffered from nightmares and night terrors. In what feels now like an entirely different life, Ronon had borne witness to many such incidences. When they had traveled as a team, there were often times when Ronon, Sheppard, and Rodney shared quarters, and, while Sheppard might sleep through anything, the former runner often woke to the hushed sounds of McKay's struggling against unseen foes lurking just beyond the scope of consciousness. Then, Ronon had gently shaken Rodney, not enough to rouse him to full waking but enough to draw him up from the depths of slumber. There were times, many times when Ronon efforts could not wake Rodney, frightening times that put the runner on edge. Rodney never spoke of what internal demons held him during those moments. However, this time, Ronon does not move to wake Rahd'ni; instead, he watches from above as Rahd'ni's night terror reaches a slow climax before receding away once more and leaving the man spent and still.

The Satedan returns to his quarters in silence, slipping inside soundlessly. Jennifer sleeps still, her form little more than a lithe silhouette against pale, silver moonlight, her back to him. He sighs wistfully at the sight of her, the long, elegant curves that delineate her form in graceful swoops and rises. He strips down to his undergarments – thin, cottony shorts the people of Earth refer to as boxer briefs – before sliding into bed with Jennifer.

His wife stirs only when he puts his arm about her and draws him close; she whispers, her voice still soft and muddled by sleep, "Everything alright, hon?"

Ronon squeezes her tightly against his chest. "Yeah. Everything's fine."

Ronon nuzzles close to her, burrowing his head between her shoulder blades and, then, starts as something tickles at his nose, cool and metallic. Ronon looks down, spying the metal ring Jennifer still wears, wreathed about her neck; Rodney's ring. The necklace suspending the ring has been pulled behind her, so the ring now hangs against her back instead of chest. Ronon stares at the offending item, feeling abruptly cold. Her wearing of Rodney's ring has not previously bothered Ronon. In truth, Satedan marital traditions do not include ceremonial rings such as engagement and wedding rings, but Ronon had embraced the Jennifer's Earthling heritage and the associated traditions and selected rings for the wedding. Theoretically, he knows it should hold no import to him, for it is the Satedan's ring that Jennifer bears upon her slender finger and _not _Rodney's. However, now, the mere sight of Rodney's ring stirs something decidedly unpleasant deep within the Satedan. He glares at the seemingly innocuous loop of metal for some time as his heart knots uncomfortably before the man finally reaches up and gently brushes the band over Jennifer's shoulder to her chest.

Jennifer rouses before drifting off entirely just enough to murmur, "Love you."

Ronon smiles to himself and presses a chaste kiss to the base of her neck. "Love you, too."

He cuddles close to her once more and drifts back to a sleep so deep that he never hears Jennifer's radio chirp for attention just an hour or so later.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

_A voice bellows harshly in D'ni tongue, "YOU WILL GIVE ME THIS!"_

"_NO! NO MORE!" He screams back. _

_Another voice calls smoothly from the far side of the room. "I told you he would never bow to your whim." The elegant, courtly man leaning in the doorframe gives a disdainful shake of his head. "Just be done with the outsider already."_

_A fist collides with his head, and the first man cries out, "NO! HE WILL DO THIS!"_

_He shakes his head, both to shuffle loose the aftereffects of the blow and to assert his defiance. "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE UP TO, AND I'LL NEVER HELP YOU!"_

_Another blow rains down upon him, smashing down upon the back of his skull with a sickening crack. White hot sparks flash in his eyes from the strike. The force of the blow takes his breath away and sends him crashing down to the warm stone ground beneath him. He lays there in a battered, uncoordinated heap as his dazed mind struggles to orient himself once more and as boisterous laughter sounds all about him. It is not the first time he has taken a blow directly to his head, and it is getting harder and harder for him to regain any semblance of composure to face this abuse._

_He is not given the opportunity to recover so as a broad, powerful hand reaches down and snatches him by the collar of his plain, linen shirt. The hand balls the fabric of his shirt and hauls him up. The abrupt motion sends his stomach revolting, and he vomits, copiously. His attacker releases him and steps back just in time that the splash of bile and stomach contents does not splatter him. He, however, falls once more to the ground, curling upon himself and clutching his abdomen against sharp cramps that continue to plague him. _

_The voice sneers in his ear now, painfully close. "If you will not honor your portion of our arrangement, I am not bound to, either."_

_He looks up, blinking the tears from his eyes to see the man before him, his captor, A'Gaeris. The man towers over him, holding something out and presenting it to his eyes. As his vision clears, he spies a book cradled in A'Gaeris's nimble hands. The thickness of the tome and the nearly reverent way that A'Gaeris holds it suggests that this is not merely a reading book but an Age. Upon closer inspection, it is not just any Age, but _his _Age. He would recognize the subtle whorls of color and water marks upon the cover that have become almost intimately familiar to him. It is the Age he has traded so much for, the Age which he is so very near to completing._

"_I want you to remember this moment," A'Gaeris purrs, stroking the cover with a perversely loving touch. "I want you to remember that I gave you the chance." A'Gaeris's sickly smile turns to a sour scowl in a heartbeat. "Perhaps you will earn this chance again."_

_To his horror, A'Gaeris turns, still looking fondly upon the Age in his grasp before pitching it directly into the hearth. His Age slams into a cheerfully burning fire, landing amid a shower of sparks. _

_He howls in rage and sorrow, his heart breaking at the loss of his Age. "NO!"_

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

"No!"

Rahd'ni gasps the word as he jumps awake, his heart thundering in his chest as he struggles to catch his breath. He blinks, forcing down the memory with several convulsive swallows. When Rahd'ni finally stills enough to look about himself and survey his surroundings in earnest, he sees that he is not in that place of suffering and sorrows that lurks just beyond his conscious memory, but in Atlantis's infirmary still. He sighs and rubs his forehead, wiping away the sweat that has collected and pooled there with the back of his wrist.

Rahd'ni checks his chrono and sighs heavily; it is slightly past third bell. He shakes his head and rises silently. It is still dark in Atlantis, yet someone stirs. Rahd'ni can hear them beyond the doors of the isolation area to the infirmary. He had not noticed until John Sheppard's arrival in D'ni how super sensitive he has become to even the most subtle of sounds, like due to the years of deprivation following the downfall of the D'ni spent alone, accompanied only by the timid little Jeruth. He listens for but a moment to the murmuring beyond the door, only to hear the sounds of Dr. Keller and Sheppard speaking in hushed tones. He cannot distinguish their words, but he can hear them still.

With a single thought, the door to the isolation unit whispers open, and Rahd'ni steps through into the main portion of the infirmary. The large hall is dimly illuminated by only a few small lights, yet it is enough to spy the physician and the colonel at the far end. The colonel reclines upon one of the beds, his broken leg propped up on a pillow, as the doctor tends to him. A pained grimace mars his features along with a sickly, grey pallor.

"You should have called me sooner," Keller chides, gently admonishing her patient with maternal care. "If I'd have known sooner, we could have started a management program for the control chair use."

Sheppard shrugs nonchalantly, but even that seems an extraordinary effort for the man. "Didn't think it was this bad."

"Men. All thinking you guys have to be big toughies," the doctor teases in a friendly tone as she prepares a syringe and injects the contents into the colonel's arm. "Asking for help is not the end of the world, you know." Sheppard's gaze drops, and Keller's joking smile falters. "What? What's wrong, Colonel?"

"Nothing."

It is a lie. Even Rahd'ni can tell from where he stands from the set of Sheppard's shoulders, the coldness to his voice, and the forced calm to his face. He hides something, even now, from Dr. Keller. Rahd'ni's blood runs cold at the thought, worrying that, perhaps, this is the plague manifesting in the colonel even after all this time. The physician gives her own shrug, letting the subject drop as she finishes tending to the colonel and helping him get settled for the night.

"Take it easy and get some rest." Keller glances up and spots Rahd'ni from the other side of the infirmary, calling, "Oh, Rahd'ni. I didn't see you there." The man steps from the shadows just slightly, enough for the doctor to see him better, and she asks, "Is there something you need?" Rahd'ni shakes his head tersely, eliciting a quizzical look from the doctor. "Are you sure? Because I'm getting a little tired of all this machismo stuff tonight."

Rahd'ni shakes his head once more and asserts, "No. I simply could not sleep."

"I could get you something to help with that, if you wanted," the doctor offers cautiously, as though afraid of driving the man back.

"No. It is alright," he assures the woman. He swallows hard, his throat abruptly dry and parched, before Rahd'ni inquires "Is everything alright with him?"

"Hey, I can hear you, and I'll be fine," Sheppard grouses, folding his arms across his chest.

Keller points an accusing finger at him. "You are supposed to be resting, Colonel."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the man grumbles, easing himself into a more comfortable position. "Happy now?"

"Much," the woman quips, before turning to Rahd'ni. "He's just got a migraine from hell. The control chair is just taking more out of him than he's been letting on."

_Envy coils about his mind in tight snares. As soon as Sheppard sits upon the control chair, it tips back and alights and bathes the man in a warm, blue glow. It is Atlantis, welcoming the colonel, rising to greet her favorite son more warmly and lovingly than she could greet any other. It is almost ironically cruel that he – the only person who can truly appreciate Atlantis and her many facets - was born without the gene and is only enabled to interact with her through his counterfeit genetics. _

Rahd'ni nods his head grimly at the faint hint of a memory, understanding somehow implicitly. Ancient technology is accessed and operated in part by a genetic complement. As such, the link between the operant and the city has both an electrical and an organic component. This yields a two way communication between energy of the operant and the technology in question. Under optimal conditions, the city draws its energy from a central ZPM cache, enough to continually replenish that which is sapped from the operant, leaving the individual entirely unaware of this energy dialogue. Under duress or extremely low power situations in which the city is running in an elaborately power conservative mode, the city is unable to compensate that which is drawn from the operant. Rahd'ni silently calculates the likely effects upon Sheppard, or any other operant to use the chair and files the absolutely disheartening information away in the back of his mind.

"Anyway, he just needs to sleep it off," Keller continues, shrugging it off.

Rahd'ni forces himself to smile as naturally and comfortably as possible granted the knowledge he now possesses, bowing his head slightly. "Of course."

The doctor yawns, cupping her hand to her mouth, and excuses herself, leaving Rahd'ni to return to the infirmary. When he does, he pauses at the foot of Sheppard's bed, pondering if the man knows just how close to killing himself each and every time he takes a seat in the control chair. The city's over reliance upon Sheppard for energy to fuel their connection is slowly burning him out. If his calculations are correct – and Rahd'ni knows he is _never _wrong – eventually, the city will begin to sap an impossible amount of energy from Sheppard through their connection, enough to potentially do irreparable damage to his central nervous system. One of these days, he will demand too much of the city, and she will respond in kind with a drawing flare that will burn through his synapses, killing or mentally crippling the colonel.

Sheppard speaks suddenly and without opening his eyes, surprising Rahd'ni. "I know you've never been the best with social skills, but watching someone sleep is seriously creepy."

Rahd'ni flushes, dropping his gaze sheepishly. "Forgive me."

"It's alright," the colonel breathes. "Something bothering you?" Rahd'ni nods, and Sheppard inquires gently, "Want to talk about it?"

"I thought we had settled that matter," Rahd'ni hisses through his teeth.

Sheppard shrugs. "Fair enough."

He hunkers down into the pillows and blankets, until Rahd'ni asks, "Does it hurt?"

"Hrm?" Sheppard raises an eyebrow to the question.

"When you… when you access the city? Does it hurt you?"

The colonel gives a slight shrug. "Kind of. It feels… funny. It's like a really bad hangover, y'know? It doesn't hurt when I'm doing it, but, man do I pay for it later." Sheppard meets Rahd'ni's gaze, attempting to make some sort of a direct connection with the man. "Y'know, with a fully powered ZPM cache, it wouldn't be a problem."

Rahd'ni draws a breath and blurts out suddenly quite bitterly, "Am I under guard?"

The colonel blinks, taken back by the abrupt nature of the question. "What?"

Rahd'ni levels a stern gaze upon the man, bristling visibly. "Am I under guard? Am I free to move about the city?"

Sheppard initially bites his tongue; he has been hoping to avoid this particular conversation for some time. It is not that he does not trust Rahd'ni. Far from it. Sheppard knows that Rahd'ni is still Rodney McKay and, therefore, still completely incapable of causing any intentional harm to another human. However, he is uncertain about leaving Rahd'ni alone to explore potentially hurtful memories. He also worries that some of the fresher expedition members – namely those unfamiliar with Dr. Rodney McKay aside from the near legendary tales bandied about – might react aversely to seeing a non-expedition member moving about the city without escort.

"Well?" Rahd'ni presses, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well, yeah, you are free to, if you want. I just figured you'd probably want someone to show you around until you get used to things again," Sheppard attempts to hedge the question as best as possible, in a faint attempt at damage control. When Rahd'ni gives no response and continues to simply stare with a cold distance, the colonel sighs. "Yeah. You can head out if you want." He reaches to the table and paws about, finding a small device. "Just, do me a favor and take this."

Sheppard tosses the thing to Rahd'ni, and he catches it with surprising ease. Rahd'ni turns the small, black item over in his hands. It is a radio, a small device meant to rest about the ear.

He grimaces, appalled by the gesture. "Have you worn this? Repulsive." He holds the radio gingerly pinched between his forefinger and thumb. "I shall have you know that the antibacterial and antifungal nature of ear wax are not proven to be one hundred percent effective. I am not placing this is my ear and contracting anything from you."

Sheppard smirks and shakes his head. "You don't have to stick it in your ear. If you need anything, just keep pressing the comm. button until someone comes to yell at you for waking everyone up."

Rahd'ni nods curtly and pockets the device before turning to gather his knapsack and Jeruth. "Fine."

As an after thought, Sheppard adds, "If you want to see your old quarters, I can give you some directions."

"Yes," Rahd'ni mutters. "I would appreciate that."

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The city is quiet as Rahd'ni walks the long halls and corridors, comforting in the stillness and silence. He follows Sheppard's directions to the letter back to what is supposedly his old quarters and finds himself at a darkly colored metal door set into a solid seeming frame flanked by angular trim in burnished copper. He has been waiting for this opportunity for some time, to explore what little remains of a life before D'ni. Rahd'ni draws a deep, stilling breath, and passes his palm over the controls, signaling the door to open.

The room is dimly lit, but, upon his entry, the lighting rises to greet him. The room is empty, for lack of a better description, but Rahd'ni is hardly surprised. Sheppard has already warned him. His more personal possessions have apparently been sent to a sister he does not recall having, while items of a more practical nature have been redistributed about the expedition members, as though salvaging everything from a life lost like carrion birds. The room is occupied only by some rather utilitarian furniture including a desk, chair, and bed. Everything is coated with a fine layer of dust. The air smells musty and stale, leaving a sickly bland taste lingering upon his palate with each breath he takes, even if drawn through his nose.

Rahd'ni sets Jeruth gently upon the ground to allow her to explore. The meek little creature darts this way and that through the room, scurrying beneath the bed and sneezing. Finally, Jeruth jumps up on the bed, stretches, settles, and places her head upon her paws to nap. Rahd'ni smiles to himself, reminded once more just how cat-like reekoos are.

Rahd'ni revolves slowly upon his heel, surveying the room with a critical eye before noting something strange. A series of pictures rest upon one of the otherwise barren shelves. Rahd'ni approaches the items slowly, cautiously, as though a trap. The pictures are free of even scant traces of dust, likely returned to his quarters by whoever kept them in his absence. The first depicts Sheppard, the hulking Ronon, Teyla, and himself. Rahd'ni is surprised at his appearance, how rounded he appears in the photograph, especially with his hair cropped quite short. The four of them are smiling, laughing. In another picture, Rahd'ni sits, grinning behind what appears to be one of the control consoles of the jumpers.

It is the third picture which makes Rahd'ni smile in earnest. It is a picture of Rahd'ni seated across from Dr. Keller, both bearing sly, shy smiles, as though caught conspiring by the photographer. Rahd'ni plucks the picture from the shelf and carries it with him back to the bed. They look…. happy. _He_ looks happy and contented, in far better spirits than he has been this long time in D'ni, even before the fall in the company of Lady Ti'ana and Master Aitrus.

Rahd'ni reclines upon the bed, clutching the picture close to him when an odd urge strikes him. His hand moves, unbidden, snaking between the bedframe and the mattress. Rahd'ni paws about there for a moment and finds nothing. He is not certain what is supposed to be there, but it leaves the man disheartened.

He curls up, with the picture of himself and Dr. Keller, and sleeps beyond third bell for the first time in years, dreaming of her.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

"_Colonel Sheppard?" _

The tinny voice stirs Rahd'ni from his sleep. He groans and rolls over, burrowing his head into the pillows and pulling the musty blankets over his head to smother out the sound. However, it is not enough as a series of beeps accompanies the voice. It is the radio, long forgotten in his pocket from when Sheppard gave it to him in the wee hours of the morning.

"_Colonel Sheppard, please respond."_

Rahd'ni recognizes the heavily accented voice fraught with worry as belonging to Radek Zelenka, and, though it turns his stomach entirely, Rahd'ni places the device upon his ear, cringing as he does. "Forgive me, Radek, but I have Colonel Sheppard's radio."

Radek sounds genuinely surprised to hear his voice. _"Rahd'ni?"_

"Yes."

"_Why do you have the Colonel's radio?" _the Czech questions before swearing in a foreign tongue and asking, _"Do you know where Colonel Sheppard is?"_

"He was in the infirmary, the last I saw him."

Radek says nothing more. Rahd'ni frowns at the rudeness of the man to wake him and not explain. He shakes his head. Radek will be heading to the infirmary, or contacting Col. Sheppard through one of the many channels of communication not including the man's personal radio. Rahd'ni resolves, then, to beat the Czech to the infirmary so he can correct such rudeness. He takes his knapsacks, gives Jeruth an idle pat, and heads on his way.

The hallway outside of Rahd'ni's door is crowded with people, dozens of them, all moving this way and that, and all in a hurry. It is dizzying to see so many moving about, sending Rahd'ni's head swimming. One of the Lanteans bumps into Rahd'ni, sending him cringing back against the wall of the hall, biting back a surprised yelp. He spends the rest of his return trip to the infirmary hugging that wall, his fingertips trailing along the cool, brushed metallic surface. The physical contact grounds him, gives him focus when the flurry of motion grows too overwhelming. It takes him far longer to arrive at the infirmary than it did to traverse to his quarters in the wee morning hours – a sobering thought.

When he arrives, he is greeted by Dr. Keller, who seems flushed with concern. "Rahd'ni! Where did you get off to?"

"My quarters," he looks down and mutters, chastised by her tone. "Is Radek here?"

Keller glances over her shoulder to a curtained off area about the colonel's bed, and her face stills to a forced composure. "Yes, but he's with the colonel right now." Rahd'ni nods and moves to brush past her, but Jennifer stills him with just the faintest of electric touches from one of her pale hands upon his shoulder. "Rahd'ni, I don't think that's such a good idea right now."

Rahd'ni furrows his brow, somewhat taken back by her tone. He shrugs off her gentle touch, deaf to her continued soft protestations. Something is wrong; he can feel it. Warnings chime in the back of his mind, toning as a somber dead bell, sounding as the great bells of D'ni did in those final hours. His heart answers with thundering beats in his chest, hammering so hard against his rib cage that he wonders if it could just burst right out. Time slows as Rahd'ni crosses the infirmary, as though the world its self has taken on something of a viscous quality. Radek's words do not carry far across the infirmary, but Rahd'ni catches the tone of the man's thin voice, fraught with fear.

When Rahd'ni draws near, however, near enough to hear words clearly emanating from behind the curtained area. He can hear Radek, yes, and the colonel as well, but there are others. Among them, Rahd'ni hears the voice of Richard Woolsey, his tone a fine cocktail of fear and irritation mixed with a liberal dose of anger.

"Colonel, the Wraith are on their way as we speak," Woolsey hisses through his teeth. "We have no other choice. We need Rahd'ni's ZPM plans. Now."

Rahd'ni's heart seizes in his chest, and he finds himself stumbling backward, as though struck by their words. They have done nothing but lie to him this whole time. They have not wanted Rahd'ni, nor cared for his feelings or health as they have claimed. No. Just like his captors, they have only ever wanted the strange and wondrous things Rahd'ni can dream up. Only, unlike his prior captors, these people have had no knowledge of the Art of crafting Ages, yet another thing they have drawn from him.

"You need to get him to turn them over to the science department as soon as possible."

When Woolsey speaks, Rahd'ni hears _their_ voices,_ their _sniggering and snarled demands in that lyrical language of the D'ni echoing in the back of his mind, seared into his mind with the disjointed memory of having one of those thick, leather bound books torn from his hands. _"Tahgemah b'zoo ah rehkor!" _

He reels from the mental blow, staggering visibly. He reaches out, flailing to keep from tumbling right over. His hand catches upon the curtain and jerks at thin fabric meant for limited privacy only. The curtain rings give, tearing a small portion of the fabric down, starting the men behind it.

"Rahd'ni…." Sheppard breathes timidly.

Woolsey blinks and straightens himself. "Rahd'ni." The diplomat flusters, momentarily grasping at what exactly to say before grudgingly huffing, "I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to hear that."

Blood rushes to Rahd'ni's head, roaring in his ears at the admission. Adrenaline floods his veins and courses through him in cascading waves, steadily building up in his bloodstream. A distant part of his mind knows this reaction, cataloguing the effects numbly. However he might implicitly understand this reaction, Rahd'ni is powerless to stem the rising tide of fear swelling within him.

"Rodney?" a deep voice rumbles behind him before venturing, "Rahd'ni?"

The man in question looks up, finding the massive Ronon Dex approaching slowly, cautiously. The hulking Satedan holds his hand out, palms held out to display their naked emptiness. Dr. Keller steps beside him, her eyes wide with worry. Rahd'ni's gaze drops to the man's meaty paw of a hand, his sight caught by the gleam of metal upon his ring finger. The pattern upon it is an intricately carved knot, but it is distinct. However, Rahd'ni does not focus upon the ring. Instead, he is transfixed by those hands, the sheer size of them by compare to his own.

_A broad hand swings at him, cuffing him sharply across the back of his head, sending stars flashing across his eyes from the force of the blow. For as delicate a race as the D'ni seem from outward appearances, the maintainer is a brute, capable of barbaric rage and strength. The strike catches him at the ear with a searing pain._

"Rahd'ni?" It is Sheppard, calling from behind him, breaking through to him. "Rahd'ni, talk to us."

"_Tell me!" A'Gaeris demands. "Tell me how this works."_

Sheppard speaks again, gently and still. "Rahd'ni, tell us what's wrong."

"No…." it is a faint whisper, a thin, croaked thing that escapes his lips.

"Rahd'ni?" Jennifer calls to him now.

When Rahd'ni turns, a glint of silver on the physician's hand catches his eye. It is a ring, a ring bearing an uncanny resemblance to the ring upon Ronon's finger. He glances to the Satedan's hand to be sure. There can be no mistaking. The rings on the warrior's and the doctor's fingers are identical. Weddings bands.

"Rahd'ni, please, you need to calm down. Let me help you," she begs.

Rahd'ni shakes his head, bitterly now. Jennifer does not wish to help him. She never has. She has her love, her husband, her Ronon Dex. Why would she ever want a pathetic wretch like Rahd'ni when she has a strong, strapping man in her bed?

His hand moves before he can stop it, reaching into his knapsack; Sheppard spies the motion and screams out, "Rahd'ni, no!"

Ronon leaps without thought, without care for personal safety. He has no concept of what Rahd'ni might have in his knapsack, no idea what sort of wonders either D'ni or Lantean in origin that Rahd'ni might use to unleash unspeakable horrors on them. Granted the genius that lurks behind those haunted, frightened eyes, Rahd'ni could be capable of any number of things.

The abrupt motion is enough to send Rahd'ni tearing the object from his knapsack, and Ronon's eyes widen when met with the sight of a Linking Book. The surprise momentarily startles the Satedan, allotting Rahd'ni time enough to rip the book open and jam his palm down upon the glowing panel of the book. His body shimmers in space as soon as the link is made.

"NO!" Sheppard screams again.

Rahd'ni cannot hear him, for Rahd'ni is gone already. His form fades away, leaving the book hanging in air for but a moment before tumbling to the ground with a deafening thud. They have lost Rodney once more, along with any hope of saving Atlantis once the Wraith arrive.

**XXX**

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**XXX**

**Author's Notes :** Huzzah! Another story, another update. Oh, yes, the Wraith are on their way, and Rahd'ni is gone, back to D'ni! Oh, wait, maybe that's more of an "oh nos!" moment. =/ Whichever.


	5. Of Stone and Dust and Ashes

**OF STONE AND DUST AND ASHES**

_**From the testimony of Guild Master Aitrus of the Guild of Surveyors**_

_I knew that, upon following Veovis to that Age, I would be walking right into his snare. However, Veovis had made himself quite clear that my wife, my Ti'ana, would suffer the consequences of my hesitance should I not immediately link. Of course, there was no way I could know that it was nothing short of a lie. How foolish I had been to think that any man could hold a woman such as Lady Ti'ana. No. No man alive can hold my Ti'ana against her will. No one could have known that, perhaps within the hour of my encounter with Veovis, Ti'ana had spotted him on the street and followed him to that Age. She stalked her prey and set her own traps while I willfully stepped into theirs. _

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Upon Rahd'ni's flight, argument breaks out in the infirmary. It is heated, cutting, and quite profane. No one is spared from the amalgam of fury, as each bears some measure of responsibility for this turn of events. Sheppard attempts rather unsuccessful to bite back his frustration and swallow his sarcasm, but he finds it difficult when faced with Woolsey. They are frightened, rightfully so, and it is all too easy to hide behind the blame being bandied about for Rahd'ni's abrupt departure.

When the flaring tempers finally settle, a rather haphazard plan is cobbled together in short order. Lorne pilots a jumper to the mainland as Sheppard dresses and Radek packs a few things. Lorne will wait at the beach where the book in D'ni links travelers to Lantea, while Radek and Sheppard will return to D'ni through the linking book left in Rahd'ni's wake. There, they shall explain the situation carefully and attempt to appeal to Rahd'ni's humanity, his sympathy – should any remain in his heart for the Lanteans.

The preparation takes little more than an hour, perhaps less even.

Radek eyes the linking book warily. It seems such an innocuous item, nothing more than a leather bound journal. However, he knows from Rahd'ni's careful explanation that every bit of material in the construction and the writing of a linking book are imbued with special characteristics unknown to even Rahd'ni for all his years in D'ni. It is a mystery wrapped in a conundrum, and one which the Lanteans are unlikely to unravel in this – or any other – lifetime. A part of the Czech thrills at the possibilities to behold therein, while the skeptic within him worries over the book.

Finally, when these warring opinions can find no compromise and when his curiosity demands to be sated, he simply hands the book to Sheppard. The colonel eases the cover open and presses his palm upon the glowing panel in the inside. Radek watches studiously as Sheppard links, his body shimmering as though the light about him is refracted by heat before vanishing entirely. Radek marvels at the effect of this seeming natural heat convection, pondering if it is, perhaps, a byproduct of the energy necessary to link or if this convection draws that energy. The linking book settles harmlessly upon the infirmary bed.

Radek lifts the linking book, constantly marveling at how light it is, how finely crafted such a thing could be to remain no heavier than an average hardcover book. In truth, Radek's personal library includes mostly tomes nearly double or triple the heft of this book on varied subjects. None of those humble books – no matter the subject – could ever come nearly as close to enthralling the Czech so much as this linking book.

He gently lifts the cover and surveys the image contained on the panel. It is dark, black enough to seem nearly devoid of anything. Yet, even as Radek stares, the shadows shift and congeal as something stirs in the darkness. A shaft of light flares from a maglight, penetrating the darkness and vaguely illuminating the man who holds the light; Sheppard. The colonel is safe, it seems.

Radek gingerly touches his hand to the surface of the linking panel and follows suit. He is swallowed by a deep, lurching sensation as the image upon the page of Sheppard scouting the location swells to engulf him. There is no clear delineation between Atlantis and D'ni. The place catalogued within the linking book simply grows increasing substantial as Atlantis seems to fade out about him. When the link is complete, however, Radek is left with the absolute knowledge that he is, in fact, in that other place.

The room they rematerialize in is small and dark, even with Sheppard's flashlight. Radek fetches a few chemlights from his pack and snaps them one at a time, shaking them out and tossing them about at random. The chemlights each offer a small radius of sickly, neon green light, but, coupled together, the disposable lights illuminate the room enough for the Czech and the colonel.

Sheppard blinks, taken back by the simple fact that this, Rahd'ni's second linking book abandoned on Lantea, does not link to the same place that the first did. Instead of arriving in a cozy book depository, this linking book has ferried Radek and Sheppard to a windowless, cramped, claustrophobic cell. The furniture is simple and permanently fixed to the floor and walls. A small niche is carved right into a wall, covered by a simple palette for sleeping, with a stone table beside it jutting up from the floor. Sheppard tries the heavy door and finds it locked soundly, with no bolts or hinges on their side to offer the possibility of cutting. It is a jail cell.

"Colonel?" Radek calls timidly.

Radek gestures to the table. There is an Age there, resting upon the table, one which Sheppard recognizes to be Rahd'ni's Age of Lantea. Yet it is not the hefty book but the single sheet of crisp vellum beside the Age that catches Sheppard's eye. It bears a single line of elegantly scrolled D'ni writing. Below that is a matching line of choppy, angular English hand that Sheppard knows to belong to none other than Rodney McKay.

_Go home. _

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Their shouts and bellows rattle through the stone from the very bowels of the Guild House and the Maintainer's prison keep. Rahd'ni listens from down the hall and smirks to himself. Rahd'ni is no fool, and he had planned for this pathetic eventuality. When he returned to Atlantis, he took with him not a linking book that would return to the relatively insecure places of the Guild House, the council chambers, or even his private quarters but to one of the cells below. Yet these outsiders did not know that until their arrival in D'ni and the discovery of finding themselves in a sealed cell.

Sheppard's voice keens from down the long hall, begging. "Rahd'ni, please…. please, listen. You don't understand." He sounds pained. "Please, just hear us out."

Something akin to sympathy and worry stirs within Rahd'ni, and he clamps his hands over his ears. He frowns. They will never give up, and, surely, in time, they will return to their Age to fetch the linking book which returns to his personal study. They will return with sufficient manpower and technology enough to ferret him out of any hiding place in the city. He is not nearly suicidal enough to chance hiding in any of the Guild or Common Ages with the risk of contagion.

And, then, with a sudden clarity, Rahd'ni knows. K'veer. He will go to K'veer, to where this all began.

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Sheppard and Radek finally concede defeat and link back to Lantea, materializing on the warm, welcoming beach beneath Lantea's radiant sun. Both men blink, temporarily blinded by the blazing, white light before adjusting after the intense and nearly overwhelming darkness of D'ni. Radek now understands the purpose behind varying opacities to the finely crafted lenses that had been initially recovered among Rahd'ni's things, clearly meant to protect eyes not accustomed to natural, ultraviolet radiation after so long in the deep, dark rock.

When Sheppard's vision finally fully adjusts and settles, he spies Lorne ambling towards them from a jumper, his hands stuffed in his pockets and a somber expression across his features. "I take it that's a no?"

Sheppard shakes his head at his second in command. "No. He set a trap." The colonel brushes past Lorne, barking, "C'mon."

"What?"

"We're going back," John grouses as he ambles awkwardly across the sand on his cast.

Lorne folds his arms across his chest. "I thought you said it was a trap."

"_That_ book was. The first one wasn't."

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_**A personal correspondence from Lord Rakeri of the Guild of Miners to Grand Master Namis of the Guild of Healers**_

_I wish to extend the gratitude of the Council and the Five specifically for your report the condition of and the care given to the man known commonly as Rahd'ni. I appreciate and concur with your judgment that, in light of his current physical and mental condition, Rahd'ni is unfit to bear witness against his captors. After much deliberation, the Council has voted unanimously in concurrence with your findings. The trial shall proceed without the necessity of Rahd'ni's physical presence, and your final report shall be entered as evidence against the accused._

_I have noted, in your report, that it is suggested that Irrat is not an ideal location for the recovery of a man who has suffered the sort of mental and emotional abuse exacted upon Rahd'ni. I understand Rahd'ni has been declared physically well enough to travel. Pending final approval of the Five, and pending your approval, I should like to offer that Rahd'ni see out the rest of his convalescence at K'veer until a more permanent solution to his unique situation be meted by the Council._

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The return flight to Atlantis is short, no more than thirty minutes, but, to Sheppard, it is an eternity. Woolsey is waiting, as is Dr. Keller with a wheelchair for the colonel, both eager for any word of Rahd'ni. As the bone weary colonel drops into the chair and recounts the fruitless expedition to D'ni, Woolsey shakes his head grimly; without Rahd'ni, Atlantis is lost.

"Sir, requesting permission to return to D'ni using Rahd'ni's first linking book."

Woolsey shakes his head. "No. If what you said is true, and that the book returning to this world is locked in a cell, you might never find a means to return back to Atlantis. You would be trapped in D'ni."

"I'm willing to take that risk," Sheppard argues bitterly in a low hiss.

"I am not." Woolsey levels a stern gaze upon the colonel. "I have already lost one friend and colleague, I am not prepared to lose another." He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "If the Wraith are coming, these people need you. Rahd'ni will be safe in D'ni."

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The solitary skiff glides effortlessly across the smooth, pristine waters of the lake under Rahd'ni's hands. He recalls that, once, the lake had been filled with many boats, perhaps dozens of them ferrying the D'ni elite to and from the many island mansions such as K'veer to the main island of Ae'gura that heralded the capital of their great empire. Hundreds more dotted the lake, trafficking goods between the many tunnels and nodes branching off from the main cavern as well as hunting the white fish of the cool waters below. Clusters of lights had once burned brilliantly in the night, heralding the many island mansions of the D'ni upper echelon. It had been as though the lake its self had a life and a population all to its own much like the city. Now, that world is gone, and only Rahd'ni remains in his flat-bottomed skiff, paddling easily from the city and towards the lonely K'veer.

Rahd'ni knows the way to K'veer well, but this is the first time he has traversed the wide lake to the towering manse since the fall of D'ni. He has been too terror stricken of the lake to cross on his own. Before the fall, a large, whale-like creature known as the senomar was known to inhabit the lake. Before the fall, Rahd'ni had been loathe to cross between K'veer and Ae'gura, making as few crossings as possible and spending the duration of the trip glancing about fearfully. Several D'ni had laughingly explained that the senomar was nothing to fear, for it was a shy, filter feeding animal that strained algae from the waters of the lake to feed upon, yet their assurances could never assuage his fears. Rahd'ni only traveled to K'veer when an oarsman was available to take him so he might not have to boat himself to the island manor. The senomar populations were not well documented before the fall, due to the creature's reclusive nature. It is entirely possible that not a single senomar survived the contagion. Yet, the mere possibility that such a large beast may still lurk in the depths has kept Rahd'ni from summoning courage enough to row himself from Ae'gura to K'veer. Fortunately for Rahd'ni, the waters remain still and placid.

Ahead, K'veer looms as a great shadow rising from the glowing waters of the lake as a jagged corkscrew of rock piercing the waters. Rahd'ni sighs wistfully. Before the fall, K'veer had shone as a beacon of light shining above the lake; K'veer had been the site of many grand parties and lavish dinners, presided over by none other than Lord Rakeri up until his health began to fell. Since Lord Rakeri's passing, well before those final nights, the corkscrewing rock of K'veer has stood silent and dark, a monument to the grandeur of a lost civilization, surprisingly untouched it seems from below by the quakes that rocked the city that last night.

Rahd'ni draws the skiff into the small, square harbor at the base of the island manse and rises, his legs shaking unsteadily. He clambers awkwardly from the rocking boat to the dock, breathing a sigh to be upon dry land once more. He has only managed this once to quell his fear long enough to cross the wide berth between Ae'gura and K'veer by determination to simply be away from the Lanteans. Rahd'ni tethers the boat securely at the dock and proceeds up the jetty and into the decidedly well appointed mansion, feeling an irrational relief crashing over him upon stepping through the wide, scrolled doors of nara.

Then, Rahd'ni furrows his brow; something is amiss. He gives pause and steps back to consider the nara doors. He prods lightly at it, and the door glides smoothly upon the stone hinges. Rahd'ni scowls. He had grown so accustomed to Lord Rakeri's doors always being open to him that he entered without paying any heed to the locks. He has not set foot upon K'veer since after the simple D'ni services for Lord Rakeri, yet Rahd'ni knows he was the last to leave, securing the manse behind him as he left. Someone has been to K'veer since then.

Rahd'ni glances about the vestibule behind him wildly and spies something curious that, in his haste to be away from the water and dock, he did not previously notice. The grandiose path from the dock up the jetty and to the base of the mansion is coated with the same, sickly yellow dusting as the rest of D'ni. There are fresh footprints there, leading from the boat up the steps to where Rahd'ni now stands, but, beneath that, a series of faded scuffs and footprints mar the coating. Several are large, the footsteps of men, but there is a smaller set amid a downright tiny set of tracks. Not only has someone been to K'veer since Rahd'ni's last visit, but someone has been to K'veer since the fall of D'ni. His hand falls to the dagger at his hip, but, then, drops away once more as Rahd'ni drops to his knees. He prods at the crest about the edge of one of the footprints and finds a hard, dried crust, suggesting that these prints had been set when the yellow had been a fresh film. Rahd'ni nods to himself; no one has passed this way since shortly after the fall.

It is not unusual to find footprints in the city. Rahd'ni has seen many paths of movement through the city, but no recent prints save his own tread. Some belong to the few survivors foolish enough to return to D'ni in hopes that order could be restored, but many of the footprints, he knows, belonged to Veovis and A'Gaeris as they collected and dispersed the dead to the Ages. It is a sobering thought.

Rahd'ni swallows, steeling himself. It is possible that Veovis and A'Gaeris came here to desecrate the six private Ages owned by Lord Rakeri, polluting them with the same, murderous filth as they did so many other Ages. Rahd'ni cannot imagine why, for Lord Rakeri had passed of naturally causes well before the fall, meaning that any act of vengeance against this house would be utterly futile. However, there is a series of prints which seem jumbled and chaotic, mussed and disturbed as thought by a struggle. Any number of horrors from their hand might await within.

Cautiously, Rahd'ni creeps inside, following the disorderly footprints up and into the manse proper. They take a direct route from the base of the island up and into the familiar quarters of Lord Rakeri's home. They lead directly to a heavily vaulted room near the very top of the keep, to a room that Rahd'ni knows well. It is the book room, where the six grand Ages of the family have been kept for centuries. The door, which Rahd'ni knows should be firmly locked, stands slightly ajar. Rahd'ni finds his hand slipping to his side to the dagger once more, despite the fact that he knows any danger has long since passed.

He holds his breath, presses inside the book room, and gasps, just gasps. The book room is a mess, nothing like the neat, tidy library Rahd'ni visited often in Lord Rakeri's company. The shelves ringing the room remained lined with the wide array of books of commentary for the six family ages, as they should be, but the six podiums upon which the Ages should be are empty. Instead, there lie several charred, ruined linking books and Ages atop a pile of ashes, as though intentionally set ablaze.

Rahd'ni crouches and plucks one of the leather bound tomes from the ashes. The book is in surprisingly decent condition, all things considered, but scorch marks mar both the cover and the broken chain secured to the spine. D'ni Ages are made to withstand the test of centuries, manufactured with the strongest and most durable of leathers and thick vellum. When Rahd'ni cracks the spine to gently thumb through the pages of the red volume, several of the pages fall from the binding under even the lightest of touches, and the linking panel in the fore of the book is black and vacant. Rahd'ni carefully skims the text, written in an ancient variation of D'ni script but one near enough to modern D'ni for Rahd'ni to read. He cringes; it is Nidur Gemat, one of the six family Ages. At the behest of both Lady Ti'ana and the Guild of Healers, Lord Rakeri had taken Rahd'ni to Nidur Gemat often to recuperate in the temperate clime of that lovely Age. It is a sad, sick shame that an Age as old and as gorgeous as Nidur Gemat shall never be seen again. Worse, when Rahd'ni looks closer, he spies five other Ages with broken chains at their spines, the other five family Ages.

Rahd'ni reverently sets aside the ruined text with the care it deserves and notices that there are several other Ages and linking books amid the charred ruins which were not a portion of the Lord's all too impressive library. He lifts one of the Ages from the pile and carefully turns the book over in his hands. It is bound in a green cover marked with both black char and light whorls of color. Rahd'ni opens the book and shudders, recognizing Veovis's tidy penmanship. This Age is equally ruined beyond repair, and the burnt pages flake away under Rahd'ni's ginger touch. Yet Rahd'ni is oddly transfixed by the text, awed by the clearly masterful hand with which the Age had been crafted. Had history been different, Veovis could have numbered among the greatest of D'ni Writers.

Amid Veovis's precise script lies another, hastily scripted hand in ink a subtly different shade of color. Upon closer inspection, he knows this hand, for however choppy and haphazard it may be; it is Master Aitrus's handwriting. He has seen enough samples of Master Aitrus's hand to be certain. Rahd'ni furrows his brow and studies a series of changes made to the book. A line of text has been scored out. Another has been altered by the addition of a conflicting term. Master Aitrus has irrevocably changed the text, destabilizing the very fabric of what was surely once a master work and in a hurry, it seems. There is no telling precisely how damaging the resulting Age had been, especially considering the linking panel is as vacant as the panel within the text of Nidur Gemat.

Rahd'ni closes the ruined book and clutches it tight to him, shaking as he does.

As the first major quakes that rocked the city had subsided to lesser aftershocks, Rahd'ni had gone directly from his rooms to the Council. There, other guild members had gathered together, along with the Five. Master Aitrus had been among them, as was Aitrus's father, Master Kahlis. Master Aitrus had assured Rahd'ni that his kin were safe, already preparing to leave for the sanctuary of one of the family Age he had penned with Lady Ti'ana, Gemedet.

It had been obvious, then, that no place in D'ni was safe, and, instead of wasting precious time debating matters, the five Lords had offered a choice. Guild members had been welcome to travel to one of the Guild Ages or to return to their families and flee to the safety of private Ages. Neither the Lords nor the Council would condemn a man for ensuring the security of their families in the face of such horror. The Lords had only asked that any man who did not link with the Council take an emergency breathing apparatus from the equipment of the Miners and the Surveyors and return to D'ni in two weeks time to check in. Rahd'ni's choice had been natural; he had no family to protect and went with the Council. Master Aitrus had volunteered, but Master Kahlis had pointed out that his son's duty lie with his wife and child. Master Kahlis had gone with Rahd'ni in Master Aitrus's place.

Rahd'ni still remembers the look on Master Aitrus's place. Master Aitrus had, in the D'ni way, clasped his father's wrist. The two men had been frightened, but they had been stoic even in the face of such uncertainty. It had been thought that any men who went with the Council would be safe; there had been no way to know at that time what the future held for either of them. Yet, they had faced their fates with such dignity, such grace, that it had been moving even for Rahd'ni.

Rahd'ni had taken Master Aitrus's hand just briefly, long enough to wish him well and to promise solemnly, "I swear unto you, I shall find an answer to this." He had smiled uncomfortably and half-heartedly at the man who had become his very good friend and joked timidly, "I am, after all, the man with the answers."

It had felt natural to say that and distantly reassuring to Rahd'ni, even in the unusual, lyrical tongue of D'ni, but it had been of but limited comfort to both men. Master Aitrus had smiled and wished both Rahd'ni and his father luck with the Council before departing. Rahd'ni has not seen Master Aitrus or his family since that moment.

After the Council perished, Rahd'ni had fled, back to D'ni, with a mining mask and tank of oxygen to breathe. He had staggered through the empty city in a daze, horrified by the destruction from the quakes and the bodies lying where the dead fell while clamoring for safety. He had stumbled across Veovis and A'Gaeris and hid from them, following long enough to watch as they collected the dead and sent the corpses through to the Ages to infect those worlds as well. As soon as Rahd'ni had gathered their intent, he ran to the home of Master Aitrus and Master Kahlis, hoping to beat Veovis and A'Gaeris. However, he had been too late. The home had been broken into, and Rahd'ni had not the heart to enter and those filthy palm prints upon the Ages of Ko'ah and Gemedet.

Rahd'ni had fled from the home without entering and unsuccessfully scoured the various libraries for a single Age not befouled by A'Gaeris and Veovis. He had spent weeks carefully skulking about the city until certain he was alone once more, ever vigilant about his oxygen reserves until, one fateful day, his supply had run out. That day, he had been forced to choose between the risk of continued contagion or suffocation. Rahd'ni had removed his helm and breathed the air for several days before surmising that, either the infection had passed, or that he had a natural immunity from the plague due to his outsider blood, the same blood that flowed through Lady Ti'ana and her half-breed son, Gehn. He had returned to their home, only to find both Ko'ah and Gemedet had been taken from the book room.

Since that moment, Rahd'ni has thought himself the last survivor of D'ni; now, he is unsure. It is certain that Veovis harbored a particular hatred against Master Aitrus and Lady Ti'ana for the part they played in his original incarceration. Thus, he can only surmise that the dainty impressions in the yellow oxide belong to none other than Lady Ti'ana and that the tiny prints belong to Gehn. It brings forth fresh sorrows to realize that they were brought here, against their will, but Rahd'ni will never know now what transpired in this place.

Rahd'ni drops the Age, leaves the book room, and locks it soundly behind him, resolving to never return to that room. He does not _want _to know what happened there. Later, as he sits at the very top of K'veer, sipping a light, honeyed wine from Lord Rakeri's personal reserve and staring out over the lake and at the city, he does not even realize he is crying until silent tears progress to convulsive, choking sobs.

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Three weeks blur by in Atlantis all too swiftly while the entire city watches the long range sensors as the Wraith continue on approach. The time passes in the blink of an eye as the expedition pulls together in preparation for the Wraith's arrival. Over the course of the last five years, Atlantis's population has swelled considerably from the modest initial expedition to a staggering community of over four hundred scientists, soldiers, cooks, technicians, doctors, nurses, and much more. The city does not sleep, not now. It has been decided that this is the best course of action is to salvage everything possible before the next wave arrives, and, to this end, each and every member of the expedition works tirelessly around the clock in shifts to collect, catalogue, and carefully pack anything of potential value, stripping down Atlantis as scavengers picking a carcass clean of all flesh. All of this is then lined up in order of importance leading up to the gate room, ready for the final evacuation back to Earth, leaving Atlantis and Pegasus behind to fend for themselves.

This is Woolsey's plan, and Sheppard loathes it for several reasons, mostly because it is based upon the key assumption that the Lanteans intend to just walk away from Atlantis and simply allow the Wraith to take her. Sheppard holds no such intention. He cannot simply go home to Earth, his tail tucked firmly between his legs and having had abandoned both Atlantis and Rahd'ni. Instead, as the weeks progress, he works on some PT for his leg to maintain as much strength and mobility as possible, nursing his own plan in secret.

Every few days, a major staff meeting is called to review the evacuation plan once more as though orchestrating a grand opera. Each meeting, Sheppard holds his tongue, knowing that the day is swiftly approaching when he shall have to say something. It is only at this final meeting, the day before the evacuation begins, when Radek finally vocalizes the key flaw in Woolsey's plans that Sheppard is forced to announce his own plot.

Radek speaks awkwardly on the last day of that third week. "We are forgetting something important."

"Like Rahd'ni?" Sheppard grouses bitterly from his spot on the side of the table, digging into his cast with a pencil to reach an itch as he does.

Woolsey sighs at the head of the table and rolls his eyes. "We've been over this again and again, Colonel. Both linking books will be returning with us. Once things are more settled, we can come up with a better plan for Rahd'ni."

"And what if he comes back here after we're gone?" Sheppard barks back. "What if the Wraith are here when he does? If we've got the other two books, he has no way back to D'ni."

Radek shakes his head as both Woolsey and Sheppard bicker and squabble once more. Tempers have flared, and the last three weeks have been filled with nothing but arguing between these two. Radek has avoided much of the confrontation, unlike other members of the expedition. He understands both sides. Rodney McKay, for all his irritating qualities and irksome eccentricities, was a good friend to Radek, Sheppard, and Woolsey alike. He knows this decision is not easy for Woolsey, but Radek understands why it must be this way.

"Ne, ne," Radek finally interjects, tossing his head as his does. "Not just Rahd'ni. If we are the last to gate out, Earth's address will be left in the buffer. Anyone could use to triangulate Earth's coordinates if they have enough knowledge of astronomy."

Woolsey purses his lips together and looks down. "I had not forgotten this in my estimations."

He holds his breath for but a moment, too long for Sheppard's liking. "What are you thinking?"

"Dr. Chase has already filed a preliminary report," Woolsey responds flatly.

Sheppard blanches visibly. Chase is a geologist with extensive experience in mining and demolition who joined the expedition a year ago to assist in surveying several worlds for possible mineral exploitation. The man is an absolute artist with incendiaries. Sheppard himself has consulted with Chase on numerous occasions when in need of a controlled demolition.

Woolsey goes on solemnly, unable to meet Sheppard's gaze. "Dr. Chase will be with the last party to leave. He will set explosives in the control room on remote to be detonated after the last man is back on Earth."

"So that's it?" Sheppard snarls. "That's just it? You're just going to blow it all to hell?"

Woolsey nods. "If that is what it takes to safeguard Earth from the Wraith, then yes. Dr. Chase is confident that, with the right placement, he could damage the DHD and computer systems beyond repair and beyond any data salvage."

"There has got to be another way," Radek whispers hoarsely, shaking his head. "After all we have done…."

"There is," Sheppard announces smugly, folding his arms across his chest. "We sink her."

"Excuse me?" Woolsey blurts with a cough.

The colonel gives a curt nod of his head and explains, "It worked for the Ancients. They sank Atlantis, and the Wraith _never _found her."

Immediately, Radek begins crunching numbers of power and draws on, harrowing conclusion; he croaks, "Someone would have to stay behind." Woolsey raises a brow, and Radek explains, "The shield would draw too much power after submergence to allow for gate transit back to the Milky Way galaxy. The best that could be hoped for would be transit to a Pegasus gate. Even then, it would be questionable."

"Could you remotely submerge the city from Earth?" Woolsey offers.

Radek shakes his head. "Impossible. Submergence is only possible from the control chair. We have tried, unsuccessfully to create a remote patch to the chair, but there are too many security protocols preventing such access. A safety measure, likely, left over from the Ancients."

"It'd be suicide," one of the scientists from the far side of the table – Dante, Sheppard thinks his name is - blurts out. "With how tapped out the ZPM cache is, there probably wouldn't even be enough power to gate out. Whoever stayed back would be trapped. Worse- with how drained Atlantis is, the shield would probably just destabilize within minutes of reaching depth, and the city would flood. The pressure differential would kill a man well before asphyxiation or hypothermal ever got the chance to."

Sheppard says nothing; Dante is right.

"What idiot would stay behind?" another member of the science division asks.

"I would," the colonel volunteers.

Woolsey glances to him. "You can't be serious."

"I am," Sheppard affirms. "I'd stay. After the last gate out, I could hit the gate with 50 random addresses to clear Earth out the buffer and, then, drop the city down to the bottom."

"And then?"

The colonel shrugs sheepishly and looks down. "I could take the jumper we modified out to the beach, hide it, and link to D'ni with the first book." Sheppard bites his lip for a moment and, then, adds, "Try to convince Rahd'ni to make a ZPM for us."

The table erupts in arguments, all directed at Sheppard and all equally valid. Keller demands to know how Sheppard intends to get around on his broken leg when he still has at last another seven weeks before the bone will be fully mended. Others belt out about the risk of failure of his plan, leaving Atlantis exposed to the Wraith. Sheppard sits and stares without argument, letting their complaints wash over him.

Finally, Ronon speaks, his voice rumbling through the conference room and stifling any commentary. "I'll stay with him."

Keller looks to her husband, her hand falling to his. "Ronon…."

"I'll stay." The Satedan nods to himself. "And I'll go with you to D'ni."

"I'm going, too," Jennifer insists.

Ronon shakes his head. "No. I won't take the chance of something happening to you." He smiles at her and squeezes her pale hand. "You'll be safe with them, and that's all that matters to me."

"You will need help finding him," Radek points out. "I shall go as well." When all eyes fall upon the quiet, meek Czech, he chortles softly. "I admit, I do not want to, but, even if you could find Rahd'ni on your own and convince him to just give you a ZPM, I could never talk you through installing one or write instructions. Ne. I must be there to install."

Woolsey draws a deep breath. He does not need to ask if they are sure about this, nor does he need to offer his approval. If this truly is the course of action Ronon, Sheppard, and Radek are committed to, there is no stopping them, and Woolsey knows this. His approval means nothing, yet he gives it just the same.

"Fine."

xxx

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xxx

For two days, Sheppard and Radek watch the carefully orchestrated evacuation as the city empties about them, bidding their farewells and accepting well wishes from those leaving. Every time the gate dials out for another thirty eight minutes of, the two men drag themselves to the gate room to exchange hugs, handshakes, and well wishes as they are left behind. Even Atlantis sorrows about them to see the Lanteans abandoning her once more, but only Sheppard can hear the city's mourning cries.

Teyla takes Jeruth with her. Since Rahd'ni's abrupt departure from the city, the Athosian has cared for the reekoo. Torren dotes on the creature, delighting in Jeruth's antics. It has been only fitting that she should keep the cat-like creature until Rahd'ni can come and reclaim his companion. John takes some small comfort in knowing that Jeruth will be well cared for and that the three of them shall be safe.

Ronon and Dr. Keller do not attend to watch the evacuation. Instead, they spend two days locked in Ronon's quarters, savoring what may very well be the last time they see one another. They avoid the subject, as well as anything that might sour the moment. Instead, they hold one another and surface only for quick meals before returning to their privacy. On the close of the second day, however, the pair slowly makes their way to the gate room, hand in hand and dragging their feet as they do, like a teenage couple drawing out the very end of a date. As the finale evacuation proceeds, they hold one another close and whisper to one another gentle promises that the will be together once more.

Before leaving, Keller pauses at Sheppard, levels a firm gaze upon him, and orders, "You take care of them, you promise?"

"I swear."

The woman smiles and hugs Sheppard warmly, whispering in his ear, "You bring both my guys back, ok?"

"I will," Sheppard assures her.

"You promise?" she presses.

Sheppard nods. "I promise."

Keller releases her embrace of him, taking a step back to survey the colonel critically. "You always keep your promises."

He smirks and gives a shrug. "Yeah. I'm just a glutton for punishment like that." He nods to the open, shimmering wormhole beyond. "Go on. I think that's your ride."

Keller ascends the ramp, the last of the evacuees. She stops just before the wormhole, turning to look over her shoulder at them, perhaps second guessing her leaving. The doctor gives a tiny, half-hearted smile at her husband, in vain reassurance, and steps through the wormhole. The gate shuts down behind her, leaving a gaping hole in Ronon's heart where she belongs.

Then, the real work begins. One at a time, Radek enters the addresses fifty addresses at random, allowing the gate to dial and fully connect before shutting it down, thus saving the addresses in the cache and pushing Earth's address from the buffer. The Czech moves swiftly and efficiently, working from a pre-approved list of addresses that would serve no purpose for the Wraith, none of which connect to any inhabited planet. Instead, the vast majority of the addresses Radek dials belong to orbital gates about derelict systems, while the rest number among the thousands of worlds the Lanteans know the Wraith have culled. As he does, Radek keeps a careful eye on the city's dwindling power.

Sheppard rests through this as best as possible, mindful that he must be in peak shape for both submerging the city and piloting one of the jumpers back to the mainland. It is difficult to find peace enough to sleep, and Sheppard finds himself tossing and turning instead of resting as he should. He blames the cast, the weight of it dragging upon his leg, but the colonel knows that is not true. He is worried, for the first time in many years, so much so that he has already packed his personal effects and sent them along to Earth ahead of him. Sometime around midnight, Sheppard finally drops off into a fitful doze, only to be roused no more than twenty minutes later by a gentle shake from Ronon.

The Satedan's voice rumbles like distant thunder. "Sheppard, it's time."

The colonel nods and rubs his slumber bleary eyes. When his hand drops to his side, Ronon wordlessly lifts Sheppard and sets him gently in a wheelchair left by Keller. There will come a time, soon, when he will have to walk the empty streets and lanes of D'ni, but, until then, Dr. Keller has insisted that Sheppard ride in one of the chairs. She has even gone so far to secure her husband's promise that he not over exert himself until that time. Ronon is matter of fact about it.

The Satedan taps at the radio at his ear and calls to Radek. "We're heading up now."

Sheppard knows the plan well. He has read the brief over and over again each night before turning in. It has become his favorite bedtime story as of late. Radek will retreat to the relative safety of the singular jumper that has been modified to travel underwater, while Ronon and Sheppard go up to the chair. There is no sense needlessly risking _all _of their lives should there be a miscalculation in remaining ZPM power. Radek's assistance is not currently necessary, and, as such, as the city descends in the water column, the Czech can sit comfortably in a nice, safe, sealed jumper until they reach bottom.

At the chair room, Ronon lifts Sheppard once more from the wheelchair and sets him gently into the control chair. Immediately, the city responds to him, tipping the chair back as she embraces her favorite son as warmly as possible granted her depleted energy reserves. Sheppard lets himself drift for a moment, savoring the sensation of Atlantis's electric kiss humming in the back of his mind. This is quite possibly the last time Sheppard will feel this, and the colonel intends to enjoy this moment for as long as possible.

He thinks the command, visualizing the city submerging beneath the waves. For a moment, the city hesitates, and John winces. He is about to condemn Atlantis to the crushing, icy depths of the Lantean Sea under the guise of safety. He has often wondered if the city were, perhaps, self aware, granted how independently Atlantis has acted on occasion. Now, he is all but certain. He is potentially dooming the city to the lonely emptiness of the abyssal depths without any guarantee of return, and Atlantis knows this. It pains him to acknowledge this, yet he cannot do anything more than this plan.

Atlantis's many vents rush open, allowing sea water to rush into the massive ballast tanks below the city. Slowly, the city loses buoyancy and begins to sink, along with Sheppard's heart. The city cries out about him as she drifts downward in the water column. When the waves crash over her wide, flat piers, the city automatically activates the shield in what is perhaps a safety protocol leftover from the Ancients to protect her occupants in the event of sinking. The city shudders from the sudden, intense energy draw, sending a shard of white hot pain stabbing through Sheppard's pain.

He gasps audibly, and Ronon's deep voice meets Sheppard's ears. "Hey, you ok?"

"Yeah," he grinds out through tightly clenched teeth before focusing once more.

The city drops faster in the water, deeper and deeper. The agony in Sheppard's head increased nearly exponentially with every few hundred meters as they descend. The shield groans under the increasing pressure, strained beyond measure. And, still, the shield holds as down and down Sheppard sinks with Atlantis until all is dark.

A rough voice draws the colonel up from the depths once more as wide, calloused hands shake him gently. "Hey, hey…. you back with me?"

Sheppard blinks and swallows. He is alone in his mind, without Atlantis's connection anymore. As his senses return to him, Sheppard notes that he is not in the chair anymore. Instead, he lies sprawled upon the floor, likely deposited there by Ronon. The pain is still there, searing behind his eyes, but it is lesser now, manageable. The Satedan looks worried, his brow gathered, his eyes wide, and his skin pale. In those dark eyes, Sheppard spies his own reflection, a tired, haggard soul in those chocolate pools.

Sheppard nods and immediately regrets it. His stomach turns, and he just barely manages to roll to his side to vomit. He wretches, violently, splattering thin bile across the floor. Through it all, Ronon murmurs soft reassurances that Sheppard does not entirely hear, rubbing his back as he does. When the nausea finally subsides, it leaves Sheppard raw and worn out, his gut continuing to cramp painfully. Sheppard groans; it has never been this bad before.

Ronon gives him but a few moments to collect him self before gathering the colonel up in his arms. Sheppard gives a token fight, pushing feebly at Ronon's chest, but the Satedan does not relent. He understands the distance and independence Sheppard needs, but they have no time for such frivolity. The shield is holding, for now, but there is no way to be certain how long it will continue to keep the water out. Ronon forgoes the chair in favor of carrying Sheppard down to the jumper bay, allowing the colonel to drift once more in his arms. It is cold at depth, bitterly cold without Atlantis's heating system in operation, and they cannot tarry long in those conditions.

Sheppard lulls in Ronon's arms, closing his eyes for what seems just a moment only to open them and find himself safe and cozy in the jumper. He has been placed in the pilot's seat of the jumper and swaddled in a warm rescue blanket. Sheppard smiles softly to himself and shakes his head, which now bears only a dull throb not unlike the passing of a migraine.

Radek calls gently to him. "Colonel Sheppard?"

"Yeah?" he croaks.

"Are you alright?" Radek asks timidly.

Sheppard sighs heavily and replies in earnest, "As much as I'm going to be." He glances about to the rather concerned Czech at his side and the stoic Satedan behind him, both of which look quite eager to leave. He shrugs and reaches out for the console, saying, "Well, I guess we'd better get this show on the road."

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The flight to the mainland is swift and uneventful. Sheppard guides the jumper through the sky, darting between the clouds playfully with graceful ease back to the beach he knows the Age of Lantea will take them upon a return trip. He circles the beach and copse of scrub brush leading to the thicker forests beyond in search of a perfect landing site before settling on a small clearing barely larger than the jumper. There, not more than twenty meters from the beach, Sheppard sets the jumper down and cloaks it. It is time to return to D'ni.

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_**From the personal journal of A'Gaeris**_

_In my haste, I had anticipated that my sniveling little rock weevil would prove more tractable when faced with the destruction of his pathetic Age. Rodney McKay resisted admirably, even when I burnt his Age. Neither of my companions nor myself are trained in the art of healing, and I fear his hands may be irreparably damaged. No matter. His work is nearly complete, and, then, I can be done with him._

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The Guild House is precisely as Sheppard remembers it, quiet, desolate, and somewhat disappointing in its emptiness, yet, on this return trip, there is something acutely depressing about D'ni. D'ni had once been filled with many people, particularly the Guild House, all bustling about their lives, just as Atlantis had up until quite recently. Now, Atlantis lies beneath the waves as silent and devoid of life as D'ni lies beneath the rock. His heart aches to see two once glorious empires left hollow and dead.

The three leave Rahd'ni's personal bookroom in favor of the adjoining study and move to the balcony. Radek and Ronon exchange gasps at the sight of the glowing, subterranean lake and the grand city spread before them. Even Sheppard must concede that it is a rather magnificent sight. He wonders, if D'ni is this peculiarly beautiful even in death, how grand must the city have been alive at its prime and lit by the warm glow of many hundreds of fire marbles down the stone lanes and paths?

"Where do we even start?" Ronon muses, shaking his head at the vast expanse that is D'ni.

Radek pulls a life-signs-detector from his pack and fiddles with the device for a moment. Tense silence spans between them as the Czech works to adjust the range and radius until he seems satisfied. He clicks through his teeth, an odd sound of contemplation before letting out an audible groan. Sheppard peers over Radek's shoulder and swears. The LSD now displays a large island dominated by the city as well as several smaller islands or rafts in the lake. There is a cluster of three red dots upon the main islands, indicating their presence, as well as a single dot on one of the far islands – which can only be Rahd'ni. They will have to cross the lake.

It takes close to two hours to find a safe path down from the Guild House to the waterfront. Ronon shoulders Sheppard's weight the entire way without complaint, but, by the time they have descended to the lower portion of the city, both their hearts throb heavily from the effort. By Sheppard's rough estimates, approximately five miles of city spans between Rahd'ni's quarters in the Guild House and the waterfront, but they have likely hiked nearly twice as far. The city is unfamiliar to them, a labyrinth of winding, narrow passages and wide, anonymous lanes made worse by the occasional debris fields too dangerous and too jumbled for an inexperienced climber like Radek or for a man with a broken leg like Sheppard. They have backtracked several times and circled about, leaving all three men rather exhausted by the time they finally reach the glowing, orange waters of the lake.

They take brief respite in the alcove of what Sheppard gathers to be an abandoned tavern judging from the glasses and bottles inside. He furrows his brow as he rests, curious now. For all Rahd'ni has said about the great plague that struck D'ni during those final hours, killing within mere minutes of exposure. Citizens had dropped where they stood, according to Rahd'ni, yet there is not a single body to be seen, not one. Sheppard has not previously noticed until now that he has seen so much of the city in what is the D'ni equivalent of daylight. It is as though they simply evaporated to nothingness, taking the secrets of their great empire with them and leaving Rahd'ni as the solitary witness to their passing.

As Radek and Sheppard sit, Ronon scours the waterfront for a suitable boat. Ronon is gone long enough that Sheppard finds himself obscenely bored and ashamed for feeling so. It is long enough that the light from the lake begins to dim, the D'ni dusk settling in. However, before full dark can settle over the city, the hulking Satedan comes trotting back, a faint smile on his face.

"Got one," he announces simply as he pulls the colonel to his feet.

The boat is a slender, elegantly crafted skiff with a flat enough keel to prevent it from tipping or swaying too greatly as Radek and Sheppard clamber awkwardly aboard while Ronon holds the thing steady. The Satedan does not step into the boat but more or less seamlessly flows into the skiff, barely disturbing the delicate craft. Ronon unties the boat and pushes off from the dock, rowing out into the wide gulf of the lake as Radek guides from the helm and as night begins to descend upon D'ni.

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Rahd'ni is not certain at first what stirs him from a brief nap, but he jolts awake, dazed and surprised. He blinks, confused at first to find himself in his old quarters on K'veer, even after all these long weeks. Rahd'ni shakes his head, rousing himself fully before realizing that sounds on the lake waters are what have disturbed him so. He pauses, holding his breath and straining to listen, catching what sounds like a boat upon the lake.

Rahd'ni sighs heavily and drags himself from his sleeping niche, straightening himself. Lord Rakeri, the former master of this house, was a great man of many graces that would never be so rude as to allow guests to go without greeting in his home. It would be a great dishonor to the memory of the man that had given Rahd'ni shelter, comfort and amiable companionship for many months after his arrival in D'ni. He does not wish to greet anyone, but he shall just the same and, then, turn them away.

He strikes the fire marble to a single lamp, descends the corkscrew tower of K'veer and strides down to the dock. There, Rahd'ni peers out into the depths of the D'ni night, a thing so dark, so barren and so very deep that it should seem a living thing quite capable of swallowing him and anything in it whole. It has not always been this way. The D'ni had been quite fastidious about lighting the avenues and lanes of Ae'Gura, along with the private islands and manses with great, giant fire marbles the size of balled fists and human skulls. Those thousands of glittering lights gave the cavern and city twinkling stars in the otherwise subterranean void. Now, it is just Rahd'ni against the cold, dark, unfeeling D'ni night.

The lake waters ripple against the pilings of the dock in small, minute waves. Although Rahd'ni cannot yet see these new arrivals, he knows they are there, slipping through the entry to the cove at the foot of K'veer. Rahd'ni squints his eyes and peers deeper into the night, finding a shadow stirring just beyond the light of his lantern. The shadows condense enough to take the shape of a boat populated by three men including its hulking oarsman. As the boat's pilot draws the craft into the pale, blue light of Rahd'ni's lamp, the three men come into detail, revealing themselves to be Ronon Dex, John Sheppard, and Radek

Rahd'ni shakes his head but greets the Lanteans formally. "Shorah t'shem." He bows his head low as the burly Satedan brings their broad, flat bottomed skiff beside the dock and grudgingly murmurs the further words of greeting, "I welcome you." Rahd'ni raises his head to meet their gaze and glares. "Now, if you would please return to wherever it is you came from and leave me in peace."

"Rahd'ni…." Sheppard breathes, the first to speak after a long and decidedly awkward pause. "Rahd'ni, we can't."

"Oh course you can," the guildsman snaps churlishly. "I left a linking book back to Lantea in my study in the Guild House. Go on. I have nothing further for you."

"Rahd'ni, you don't understand. We _can't_ go back," Sheppard whispers, his voice suddenly timid and fearful of the man looming over him on the dock. "The Wraith are on their way."

Rahd'ni scowls, folding his arms across his chest in the way Rodney McKay always had, puffing up like a petulant, sulking child. "Well, you cannot stay here, either."

"We have no where else to go," Radek argues softly, pressing gently.

Rahd'ni chews his lip in thought. There is no telling the damage to the Ages wrought by Veovis's and A'Gaeris's hands both by linking plague ridden corpses through or by intentionally distorting the structure of the Age by irreparably altering the text. It would be unconscionable of Rahd'ni to so callously hurl the three through to an Age that might be a death sentence. Yet he will not abide their presence in D'ni long enough to pen a stable Age for them. There is only one further option.

Rahd'ni rubs the back of his neck and sighs once more. "To the surface, then." As the Lanteans blink, the guildsman nods now firmly. "I'll take you to the surface."

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **Not a ton of emotional or physical action, but, meh, it needed to happen. Hooray for taking this show on the road… er… Path. Hooray for finally having a day to write stories after so long writing about pelagic plastics and _Alvinella pompejana _for my term papers!


	6. A Path in the Dark

**A PATH IN THE DARK**

_**A personal correspondence from Lord Rakeri of the Guild of Miners to Guild Master Aitrus of the Guild of Surveyors**_

_I understand that both you and your wife, the honorable Lady Ti'ana, have expressed keen interest in my houseguest, the outsider Rahd'ni. Grand Master Deretheni of the Guild of Healers assures me that the current progress of Rahd'ni's healing is to be expected, granted the nature of his injuries. Unfortunately, Rahd'ni has made no progress in regaining any of his memories from before his rescue. The Healers fear that the damage to his mind is permanent but is fortunately limited to his memory and not any portions of his mind responsible for higher function._

_This must come as limited comfort to you and your kin, Grand Master Aitrus. I know this is very difficult for you, perhaps as much as it is for me. You and Veovis had been so very close for so many years. You must yearn to understand the events that brought you and your wife to that Age on that day as much as I, yet the answers sadly do not lie in Rahd'ni. _

_Whatever befell Veovis to bring him to that path, I fear, no matter what the evidence the Maintainers locate, we shall never completely understand what drove my son to such butchery. May Yahvo, the Maker, help him and we who must live in his wake._

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Rahd'ni pays no heed to the Lanteans, shutting their balking out entirely. He replies with curt, noncommittal and dismissive answers to any of their arguments. Rahd'ni's mind is set, and nothing will divert him from this plan. To Sheppard, Ronon and Radek, it is a startling glimpse of the old Rodney McKay peeking from behind the veneer of the stranger that is Rahd'ni, even if the man in question cannot see it. It is both comfort and utterly maddening to the Lanteans.

Rahd'ni wastes little time and offers the Lanteans no respite from their journey. He hustles them back into their skiff and takes the helm from Ronon, steering them back towards the city. He holds himself stiffly and distantly from the Lanteans, his body fraught with tension. Wisely, the Lanteans hold their tongues through the lake crossing, knowing that anything they say will only worsen the situation.

Rahd'ni ties the skiff alongside one of the docks in the lower city and jumps off, growling, "Wait here."

Sheppard nods, and Rahd'ni leaves them for some time, sitting there in the skiff. In fact, it is long enough for the three Lanteans to grow bored. The time is passed with idle, awkward chatter that dies almost as quickly as it springs up. Just as Ronon starts to huff with annoyance, Rahd'ni appears from nowhere, weighted down by four big, leather packs. He clambers back into the skiff, sending the thing lurching uncomfortably in the water. Ronon helps him with the packs, setting them down without question while Rahd'ni pushes off from the dock and takes them out to deeper water.

Finally, Radek inquires cautiously and gently, "So, how do we get to the surface? Another book?"

"No," Rahd'ni replies softly as he propels the little skiff along the lake. "You can only link between two Ages, not between locations within a single Age." He shakes his head. "No, we must take the Path."

"A tunnel?"

Rahd'ni snorts oddly. "A labyrinth. The Surveyors and the Miners were quite thorough to exhaust all avenues within the rock to construct the most secure tunnel possible. Sounding and resounding. Turning back and starting anew, burrowing into the rock." He gives an awkward sort of chortle. "Master Aitrus often described it as infuriating, but, when the D'ni build something, they build it to last."

His eyes mist, and, despite Rahd'ni's attempts to conceal it, Sheppard can plainly see the pain written upon his once friend's face. Rahd'ni has mentioned this Master Aitrus several times, enough for the colonel to venture that this Aitrus was a friend or at least a close acquaintance of Rahd'ni's. It pains Sheppard to see Rahd'ni aching so, but Rahd'ni maintains his grief as a private thing and is unlikely to share with them.

Sheppard tactfully changes the subject. "How long will it take us to reach the surface, then?"

Rahd'ni scratches his chin and surveys the colonel's injured leg once more before half-heartedly answering, "Perhaps four or five days, depending."

Sheppard nods to himself. Rahd'ni may think little of them at the moment, but he is not a hardened asshole. Rahd'ni knows Sheppard is still healing from his fall and will not press the mending leg beyond what is safe. Sheppard can and will fake it and stretch that time for as long as it takes to convince Rahd'ni against ditching them on the surface of an alien world.

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Upon receiving clearance to leave the SGC, Dr. Jennifer Keller solicits a ride into town. Before Atlantis, Keller had leased cars, enjoying the frivolity of having a nice vehicle without the necessity to worry about long term maintenance and repairs. Upon signing onto the expedition, she had terminated her last lease prematurely, seeing no sense in paying for a vehicle she would likely never drive again before the end of her lease. As such, she now has no car of her own; she will have to rent one in the morning.

However, at the moment, she has more pressing matters to attend than caring about renting or leasing a car. One of the MPs has been kind enough to drive her to a hotel in town. It is not much, but it shall suffice. She checks in, finds her room, drops her bag on the floor and runs a hot bath. She sinks into the nearly scalding water, hugs her knees close to her chest, and just cries herself dry in thick, choking sobs. This is a new insult, replete with the requisite sorrows, for, if whatever Sheppard has planned fails, Jennifer will never see _either _of her loves again.

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Rahd'ni guides the flat bottomed boat to the far end of the lake, away from the city, closer and closer to the massive, gaping rift in the great cavern wall. Sheppard eyes the huge span with sheer awe. It is taller than he could ever imagine, and wide too. He is no geologist by any stretch of the imagination, but the fissure inexplicably appears new even to his untrained eyes. It reminds Sheppard of the fresh edges of a single, swollen geode he had cracked open as a child in hopes of finding delicate shards of crystal yet rewarded instead with only void and stale air held within.

At the base of the crack, a great tunnel bores deep into the rock, taller than any man and certainly large enough to avoid imbuing claustrophobia upon any who traversed it. The tunnel is flanked by a great, decorative arch opening to the cavern and appears lined by a dark, smooth stone beyond. While Rahd'ni works to secure the skiff and unload his many parcels, Sheppard hobbles to the wall of the great tunnel to investigate more closely and discovers that the stone lining it is a smooth, garnet stone, slightly cool yet not cold to the touch and utterly seamless, as though a singular piece. He marvels at the buttery texture of the stone and the mastery it must have taken to create such sophisticated rock work.

Rahd'ni calls from behind him. "Sheppard."

The colonel returns to the lakeside, to Rahd'ni's side. The man has brought several items with him, likely from the Guild House. Three sets of sturdy, leather boots. Three plain yet elegant and smart cloaks of the deepest black. Three sets of goggles much like his own. Three protective cowls of some form. He presents these items, along with the packs, to the three Lanteans. Sheppard's leg remains encased in plaster, and he balks until Rahd'ni shows him one of his boots is far oversized and laces on both sides for a snug, adjustable fit.

"The epicenter of the final quakes is not far, and there has been much damage dealt to the Path its self," Rahd'ni explains sternly, holding up a single finger in warning. "We must proceed with caution."

"How can you be certain?" Radek asks curiously.

"Certain of what?"

"That the quakes began here?" Radek responds quickly, flushing visibly. "Forgive me, but I did not think geology one of your specialties."

Rahd'ni tenses visibly as though struck, and the man turns his back to them, shuddering oddly. Radek grimaces at whatever social error he has made with just a simple inquiry. The Lanteans hold little favor in Rahd'ni's eyes now, and they must be wary not to lose what miniscule sentiment the man might harbor to survive in the alien, subterranean realm of D'ni.

Radek takes a single step towards Rahd'ni, intending to apologize, when Rahd'ni shakes his head and whispers, "Come. I will show you."

The strange quartet walks for perhaps ten or twenty minutes down the tremendous tunnel into the rock in stark silence. Radek carries a chemlight for the Lanteans while Rahd'ni strides ahead them bearing a D'ni lantern. Rahd'ni maintains a comfortable distance between them of a few meters or so. Every now and then, he pauses and glances over his shoulder to allow the Lanteans time to close the distance slightly before starting off again.

He leads them to an impressive antechamber of rock and just stops, allowing the Lanteans to marvel at the sight spread before them. This is absolutely the epicenter of the quakes, of that, there can be no question. A great, grave looking machine rests along the wall, crouched before a great crag in the rock menacingly, long tools of some sort pressing into the crack. A faint, orange glow penetrates through the rock, and Sheppard realizes this is the far side of the massive fissure spanning the cavern wall in D'ni. His stomach sours to note that this horrible machine that has rendered such damage is some curious blend of both D'ni and Ancient technology. Sheppard's heart sinks instantly as Rahd'ni approaches the behemoth of a machine, for only one man could have fabricated such a brilliant marriage between two entirely alien technologies.

Rahd'ni steps up right alongside the machine and is utterly dwarfed by the thing. When Rahd'ni touches the machine, it is with fearful reverence. His fingers move across the skin of metal, gracing with just the tips as his hands slip across the graceful contours. Sheppard wonders idly if Rahd'ni knows this design could have only been wrought by Rodney McKay.

He closes his eyes and leans forward, resting his forehead against the device. "This….. this is it."

Rahd'ni sounds lost somehow, adrift in an unforgiving world. He speaks as a child, his words timid, frail, and entirely noncommittal. As if to complete the illusion, Rahd'ni crumples forward into the machine, shuddering as he does. Sheppard's heart falls further, if such a thing could be possible; Rahd'ni knows.

Radek looks beyond the machine to the back of this nodule in the rock. Several other machines rest in this cavern as lost, forgotten monuments to the fall of the D'ni empire, yet these are all the same and are entirely of D'ni design. He crosses the chamber, intrigued now by what appears to be massive ventilation machines. They are plain and utilitarian in design, yet sturdy and impressive. Each seems to feed a wide tube, to which innocuous cylinders are attached. Radek stares curiously at them for a moment and taps one of the cylinders.

"No!" Rahd'ni cries out sharply, sending Radek jumping in fright. "Do not touch!"

Radek jerks his hand back as though burnt, giving Rahd'ni space enough to slip between the Czech and the machinery. "I'm sorry."

Rahd'ni's crisp, blue eyes flicker over the machines, and he breathes, "No harm done, quite fortunately for you."

"Rahd'ni… what is it?" Sheppard breathes softly and timidly.

The guildsman shakes his head and sighs, "This is how Veovis and A'Gaeris undid D'ni. The earthquakes did great physical damage and killed many, but they were just ruse. A'Gaeris and Veovis wanted the city in chaos to distract the Maintainers from this. That machine served to convey a simple harmonic frequency in the rock, rendering stable geology unstable and producing earthquakes of monumental scale." He points to the machines, "These are from the supply of the Guild of Miners and the Guild of Surveyors, meant to bring fresh air to new excavations until permanent ventilation could be installed." Rahd'ni hands his head and gestures to the cylinders. "Those traitors pumped their poison right into D'ni with these."

While Radek's face registers shock at the casual cruelty to such a plan, Sheppard and Ronon merely exchange a knowing glance. Despite their differing worlds and cultures, they are both military men with specialized knowledge of strategy, and such a plot surprises neither. In the wake of the mighty tremors, with the city in chaos, the injured piling up, and major structural damage dealt to many of the main edifices, any police or military force would be too preoccupied to mount any sort of assault or investigation. Given the opportunity to destabilize a population before an assault, both Sheppard and Ronon know they would exploit it.

Rahd'ni shakes his head slowly, mournfully, before breathing, "Come. We have a great distance to cover before the first eder tomahn."

xxx

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xxx

She waits and watches, shielding her eyes from the scorching desert sun beneath her delicate, tanned hand. The desert is an unforgiving place, the only place fit for her ilk, but she has lived her for much of her natural. She knows how to move with the shifting dunes to beyond the aging, rounded lip of the caldera, how to scale the cliff faces below the dormant volcano and how to scuttle through the narrow cracks within the rock. She is suited to the desert, curried and groomed to this existence by her father.

Yet, the child is not.

She watches him as he pauses and examines something in the ground intensely. He prods at the offending item, furrowing his brow in the same way his father did. She knows he will be drawing whatever it is in his journal tonight, carefully sketching it to precise detail and rendering a near perfect copy, just as his father would. She sighs heavily; he is so like his father that it pains her sometimes greatly to even just look at the boy. It brings her such unimaginable shame to feel so.

A tear prickles at her cheek, and she instantly swallows the cumbersome emotion down. The desert does not forgive the loss of precious moisture for something as frivolous as tears in this large a degree of exposure. No. She shall save her tears for nightfall in the cleft, once the child is fast asleep and cannot hear her mourn all that she has lost.

She calls to him, softly now, wary of his uncertain emotions, "Gehn, come now."

He looks up to her and nods, speaking as though to a stranger, "Of course, Mother."

She waits for him to come closer before extending her hand to him. He does not take it. He never will. The child brushes past her and continues on his way towards the cleft, leaving her behind in the sands. He blames her. She sighs and shakes her head; she deserves his blame.

xxx

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The Path is long, treacherous and punishing.

Ronon Dex has crossed many vast distances through his life, but this is harder than most. Rock is terrible to the feet, and the Path is a vast, winding passage through the rock, lined by hard, unyielding stone. There are twists and turns every few dozen meters in the Path, and obstacles too, rockfalls where huge sheets of whatever stone material lines the Path has collapsed. Rahd'ni scales these obstacles with the ease born of familiarity, but it is hard for the Lanteans. Radek is not accustomed to such climbing, and Sheppard's leg does not allow the sort of grace and fluidity necessary to mount such obstacles.

Each step is nothing short of misery as white hot pains shoot through Sheppard's still mending leg. The first few hours of hobbling along were bearable, but, as the time and distance traversed increase, each step grows more and more difficult. He begins to lag, slowly at first, just slightly off pace. Ronon matches his own, otherwise long gait, keeping time with Sheppard either subconsciously or consciously as Radek strides just a few feet ahead of them. The Satedan keeps close to Sheppard, well aware of the colonel's suffering as he struggles to keep up from the fine lines upon his pale face and the beads of perspiration forming upon his brow. When Sheppard falters, Ronon catches him, shouldering his friend's weight from then on until it seems too much for the colonel to bear.

"Rahd'ni!" Ronon calls.

The stranger that was once their friend, their colleague, has gotten too far ahead again. He has kept his distance from the Lanteans, leading them deeper and deeper into the stone labyrinth with only a single lantern and cheerfully blazing fire marble to illuminate the Path. He has maintained at least five to ten meters between them at all times, but, as Sheppard's valiant struggles have increased, so has the distance. Rahd'ni has somehow kept a keen ear upon them, knowing when to stop and give pause long enough for the Lanteans to close the distance before starting off once more into the dark without ever giving a passing glance behind him.

This time, when Rahd'ni stops once more, Ronon simply and firmly states, "We need to stop."

"Soon," Rahd'ni replies, turning and holding the lantern out towards them.

"No, now," Ronon growls, helping the colonel to the ground. "Sheppard can't go much further." The Satedan glances to Radek and spies the weariness in the Czech as well, "And Radek needs a break soon, too."

There is a momentary flush of gratefulness to Radek's face, a tiny quirk of his lips into a minute smile that fades as swiftly as it formed. The Czech is tired. Sheppard is spent. And Ronon? He is a fit man, fit enough to carry Sheppard, but it is not in him to put his friend through such torture any further.

"Soon," Rahd'ni repeats. "We are almost to the first eder tomahn."

Ronon shakes his head. "How far?"

Rahd'ni shrugs and pulls a map from within his cloak to consult and calculate. "Within the next two hundred meters."

Ronon looks to Sheppard with concern. The colonel appears waxen in the off colored light imparted by the blue fire marble in Rahd'ni's lantern. The light catches the sweat on the colonel with a surreal sheen. Sheppard's breathing is hard and labored as he tries desperately to still himself. He glares up at Ronon with the sort of sharp sternness that the Satedan is certain must be Sheppard's best attempt at quelling any arguments. Ronon shrugs and helps him clamber back to his feet. The last stretch is spent with Sheppard grunting in Ronon's ear, forcing one foot in front of the other as best he can but truly being dragged along his friend.

And, then, as simple as that, there it is. The eder tomahn. Although Rahd'ni has never explained what an eder tomahn is, the Lanteans know this can be nothing else. It is a house or fortress of some kind, carved into a wide relief in the stone at a swollen node in the Path. It is large and quite secure seeming. Both Ronon and Radek let out a sigh of relief at the sight, but Sheppard is too exhausted to truly notice the structure even as Rahd'ni opens the door and bids them enter. The three Lanteans nearly tumble inside from exhaustion and shuffle into a wide, well appointed vestibule.

Rahd'ni takes the time to move swiftly ahead of them through the eder tomahn and strike fire marbles in several lamps throughout the structure before motioning for the Lanteans to follow him. The eder tomahn is efficient is design. The vestibule opens to a long, wide corridor flanked by many rooms. As Rahd'ni draws them deeper into the eder tomahn, Radek peers through the wide archways into what appears to several lavish sitting rooms and studies. He furrows his brow but says nothing as Rahd'ni leads them up a flight of stairs to a series of several private chambers.

Rahd'ni gestures to the chambers. "Please, make yourself comfortable." He is polite, but there is a cold distance to his words that betrays the manners implied. "I shall fix something light for you."

The man spins about on his heel and stalks down the steps, leaving the Lanteans to their own devices. That is fine by Sheppard. All he wants to do is curl up in a bed and die, which is rather convenient considering each of the rooms offer two large, plush looking beds. Sheppard shambles across the room and flops into the bed, unconscious by the time he hits the plush sleeping mat provided by whomever came before these weary travelers. With great care, Ronon gently lifts the colonel's legs, places them on the bed, removes his boots and sets them beside the bed. Radek sits upon the other bunk as Ronon locates a neatly folded blanket from somewhere in the room and drapes it out over the colonel.

As the Satedan steps away from the colonel, Radek catches him by the wrist and whispers, "I do not like this, Ronon."

"What's to like?" the burly man hisses through his teeth.

"The Colonel, he cannot continue at this pace, and we cannot be certain that the surface is safe," Radek argues softly, timidly, as though afraid of reprisal.

Ronon nods in concession. "Yeah, but Sheppard seemed to put his stock in this."

"Oh, the surface is quite habitable, I assure you." Both Ronon and Rahd'ni jump at the sudden reappearance of Rahd'ni in the door frame, bearing a tray with several items, but the man continues without missing a beat. "A desert Age. It is unforgiving, yes, but habitable if you are suitably fit and educated about the rigors of such existenc"

Rahd'ni sidesteps between the two Lanteans to set his tray upon the table. Surprisingly, the tray bears an abundant array of food, all fresh, nearly tumbling an elegant serving bowl detailed with patterns set in fine, white lines. They appear to be fruits mostly and berries as well, all alien from Earth standards but somewhat vaguely familiar to men who have grown accustomed to the wide range of edible foods from several different worlds. The few that have leaves bear green leaves, obviously photosynthetic; Radek realizes from this simple fact that the eder tomahn must bear an Age of some form to provide such bounty, hidden away from the Lanteans by Rahd'ni.

One side of the tray is occupied by a tall pitcher filled with what appears to be clear water and three, sturdy seeming tumblers of fine alabaster carving. Both Radek and Ronon take note of the number, knowing intrinsically that it means that, despite the ample food, Rahd'ni will not be dining with them. It is likely yet another manner of maintaining the careful distance between them that Rahd'ni has cultivated since his flight from Atlantis. Rahd'ni intends to abandon them in a desert, and he clearly means to offer them no room to dissuade him from this course.

Radek attempts to politely shift the subject to something slightly less disturbing, inquiring, "What is this place?"

"The eder tomahn?"

Radek nods. "Yes."

Rahd'ni pauses, frowning oddly, before explaining, "The Path had been a matter of great debate shortly before Lady Ti'ana's arrival, and well before my own. There had been many voices in the Council who wished the Path to be a route to the surface for trade and communication with any who might dwell there. The eder tomahn are way stations, rest houses, intended to provide comfortable, restful accommodations for any travelers." Rahd'ni sighs heavily, mournfully. "Sadly, the Path never saw such usage."

"Because of the…." Radek pauses, uncertain how to most tactfully word the demise of an entire culture nearly overnight.

"No, no," Rahd'ni states with a quick, terse shake of his head. "After lengthy inquiry and countless hearings, it was declared that the Path should be sealed."

"Why?" Ronon inquires, his ears pricking at what might be a potential issue.

Rahd'ni shrugs. "It is… difficult to explain. The D'ni were a cautious race, never one to rush into anything blindly. In capping and sealing the Path, they forgo any immediate action and prevent any further incident."

Ronon folds his arms across his chest, his displeasure rising with each entirely overly calculated phrasing on Rahd'ni's part. "What incident?"

The man's lips quirk at the edges into a faint, nostalgic smirk. "Why, Lady Ti'ana, of course." Rahd'ni looks to the Lanteans and spies confusion in their eyes; he shakes his head and chortles haughtily, "I thought you understood. Lady Ti'ana was not D'ni. She was ahrontahntee, an outsider." Rahd'ni pauses and closes his eyes solemnly, as though stilling himself, before admitting somewhat sheepishly, "Like me."

The Satedan melts slightly. It has been difficult this day to remember that Rahd'ni is still Rodney McKay considering how hard he has pushed an injured man on their march down the Path. Yet, there is a bashfulness to Rahd'ni that is completely endearing and all too reminiscent of the nervous, flighty creature that had been Rodney McKay. He sounds more like he is speaks of his first lover than what must have surely been his one and only ally in an all too desperate situation.

Ronon sits and considers his words carefully before asking, "Were you… involved?"

Rahd'ni laughs. "Lady Ti'ana and I?"

Ronon nods sternly, and Rahd'ni hoots, nearly rolling right off the bed and hugging his sides. The noise stirs Sheppard in his sleep, and the three men freeze. Rahd'ni stares at the colonel with wide eyes, yet Sheppard does not wake. He is dead to the world.

When Rahd'ni speaks again, it is much more softly. "Surely, you jest."

"No," Ronon whispers back. "It's just…. the way you talk about her…."

Rahd'ni grows serious once more and shakes his head slowly. "No. Lady Ti'ana's heart belonged to Master Aitrus and his to her." He smiles wistfully and drops his gaze. "I was very blessed to call them friend." Rahd'ni stills and quickly composes himself once more, replacing the warm, jovial creature with whom they had just been speaking with the cold, dispassionate creature who had pushed them so callously all day. "My heart belonged to another." Ronon winces and opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Rahd'ni swiftly cuts him off, "You should eat and get as much rest as possible. Tomorrow begins a more difficult section."

Radek and Ronon exchange a glance, but Rahd'ni departs before either can say a word, retreating to his own room at the far end of the hall and locking the door behind him.

xxx

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xxx

Rahd'ni wakes the three Lanteans early the next morning for a simple meal. Sheppard watches Rahd'ni carefully as they share their meal in a dining hall in the lower level of the eder tomahn. When Rahd'ni catches Sheppard's eye and scowls, the colonel flushes and averts his gaze, resorting to stealing passing glances to the man. In the past, Sheppard had always ensured that McKay ate the quantity with the frequency necessary to prevent any sort of hypoglycemic reaction, and old habits die hard, grizzly deaths. Shortly after, they depart the eder tomahn in uncomfortable silence.

Rahd'ni had not lied the night before; the Path somehow proves more grueling the second day. Sheppard curses each and every step they take through the darkness. The colonel tries to push it down, to remind himself that this is the only chance they have of winning back Rahd'ni's trust, but the Path has proven so strenuous on his healing body that he has not yet had the opportunity to even consider a plan of attack. In fact, it is such a difficult hike that Sheppard can hardly think straight about anything, worsened only by the slowly rising temperature of the Path – or is it his own body heat?

By what feels like Lantean midday by his calculation, Sheppard is so exhausted that he can hardly breathe, let alone walk. He flops down to the side of the Path and lies there, heaving deep breathes of clear, cold air. His heart hammers in his chest, and his leg throbs painfully with each beat. Heat rolls off his body from the exertion, but, surprisingly, the rock beneath him is only mildly cold, not the least bit as refreshing as he had hoped.

Ronon crouches down beside him. "Hey. You alright?"

Sheppard forces himself to nod, but he knows he is not. He cannot continue pressing himself at this pace, not if he is to make it to the surface in one piece.

Rahd'ni scowls, folds his arms across his chest, and snaps, "Come now, we walk a dangerous corridor and cannot afford to dawdle any longer."

At any other time, Sheppard might have hooted at the word "dawdle," a word far too antiquated to be taken seriously in contemporary conversation. Yet, he finds no humor to this. He is exhausted, pissed, and burning up. Sheppard has no energy left to spare on petty jest and mockery, and, even if he could, he doubts it would serve any benefit to their tenuous relationship with Rahd'ni.

"He needs to rest," Radek interjects gently and imploringly.

Rahd'ni shakes his head tersely. "No, no, no." He strides swiftly to the Lanteans and glares, his features exaggerated vastly by the lantern light. "I told you, we cannot afford to wait. We must keep moving." When the Lanteans make no move to drag Sheppard to his feet, Rahd'ni shouts, "Now!"

Ronon rolls his eyes and glances both ahead and behind them in the tunnel. "There's nothing here."

Rahd'ni nods. "Yes, and that is precisely the problem."

"What?"

"Can you not smell _it_?" Rahd'ni demands fervently.

The three Lanteans blink and give pause to sniff at the air. Most caves and subterranean structures that the Lanteans have encountered in their various travels have been quite musty, the air stale from centuries of stillness and calm. The air upon the Path is clean, but, upon further sampling, it is not nearly as fresh as the air in D'ni proper. Ronon furrows his brow and inhales deeply, studying the curiously off odor and finding something lingering there, something decidedly unpleasant.

"Sulfur," Radek breathes in surprise and sudden fright.

Rahd'ni nods and explains slowly, as though to children, "Now do you understand? This entire area we are entering is still highly unstable. We cannot rest here, cannot even tarry. Not even for a moment. Come, now, or I shall leave you."

Sheppard groans but forces his recalcitrant and protesting body to rise. Ronon helps him, taking up his place by the colonel's side and shouldering his weight. Sheppard is immensely grateful, but he is too tired to offer anything more than a nod of his head. Ronon understands. The Path grows warmer until it is stifling, and Rahd'ni signals them frequently to stop for him to scout ahead a bit before returning and bidding them follow once more. Sheppard wants to argue, as all this stopping and going is punishing on his body, for it offers a taste of rest before snatching it away. His knees ache and throb as he rises, forcing Ronon to bear more and more of his weight as they continue on.

Then, after one of Rahd'ni's frequent scouting, when he returns, he draws his cloak closely about him, pulls his goggles over his eyes, and sets the protective cowl upon his head. Ronon and Radek frown, curious, but the man merely instructs them to do the same. Ronon helps Sheppard fetch the items from his pack.

Rahd'ni draws near to them and orders curtly, "Stay close to me now."

The Lanteans obey, keeping close to Rahd'ni's heels as they round a corner and are instantly bathed in radiant light and scorching heat. Sheppard blinks, his eyes adjusting beneath the lenses before he recalls that such finely crafted goggles are capable of screening out various levels of light intensity. The Lanteans fiddle with the fine controls on the goggles before finding a comfortable level, and each gasps in turn. The Path has opened up to a wide node in the stone with a narrow, delicately crafted bridge crossing a glowing stream of lava oozing like honey through the Earth.

"This was once a subterranean hot spring."

Sheppard nods at Rahd'ni's statement, but he does not register it truthfully. He is honestly too awed by the heat and beauty of it to consider the terrible cataclysm caused by simple vibrations in the Earth to render this portion of the Path so unsafe. There is something transfixing about the smooth, slow motion of the lava, both lulling and frightening. The cave its self is wide, with smooth, long walls lined by smooth, dark basaltic stone that shimmers in the light and topped with sharply pointed stalactites hanging from a cavernous ceiling. A forest of delicate stalagmites reaches up about the periphery of the cavern, but several are cracked and fallen. Before the quakes, when this cavern had been dominated only by a geothermal spring, this must have been a gorgeous, refreshing sight along the Path, so much so that it seems the D'ni saw fit to emphasize the natural curves and shapes of the node with the design of the bridge.

Rahd'ni blinks his eyes in shock, but the action is safely concealed from the others beneath his darkly tinted goggles. The marvelously designed bridge is marred by a broad gap at the very apex which has been haphazardly repaired with what appears to be a board or plank of nara, the hardest and most durable of D'ni stone. He had traveled the Path, once before, shortly before the fall, and knew this portion before such destruction. At that time, the bridge had been solid; this repair has come _after _the collapse of D'ni civilization. Rahd'ni's mouth goes dry to realize that there are potentially more survivors out there – more D'ni!

Rahd'ni pushes down his nostalgic and naïve hope and refocuses himself on the entirely dire situation at hand. "Quickly, now!"

Sheppard stares in amazement as, once more, Rahd'ni moves with a speed and agility that surprises the Lanteans, crossing the space of the cavern and ascending the bridge with ease despite his bulky pack and protective gear. Rodney McKay had never been a particularly fit person, balking at even the slightest hint of physical exertion. However, necessity has carved a stronger, leaner, and entirely more capable man from the soft, malleable flesh of Rodney McKay.

Rahd'ni may appear cool and confident, but, secretly, he is not. Nara is strong, impossibly strong in regards to both tensile and impact strength, and incredibly heat resistant, yet that does not assuage any fears regarding the safety of such hasty a patch. At any moment, the nara plank could tumble out from beneath his nimble feet and pitch him into the lava pool below. As he reaches the top of the bridge, he holds his breath while he scurries across the span. He does not release that breath until he is safely at the other side of the chamber.

"Alright. Come across one at a time!"

The Lanteans exchange a quick series of glances. Radek goes first, flitting across the plank. Sheppard ambles after him, but, with his bulky cast, he is not nearly swift enough. The heat goes right to his head, stealing his breath away and blanketing the colonel with a fuzzy haze. He lists uneasily, his head swimming, and Sheppard's world grays. The world lurches wildly as the darkness closes in and as he begins to fall.

"SHEPPARD!"

To the man's eternal surprise, it is Rahd'ni's voice that cuts through the cavern as the man rushes for him. A hand reaches out and snatches at his cloak, but, before Sheppard can be dragged to safety, the darkness drags him down deeper and deeper into the blessed, merciful void of unconsciousness.

xxx

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xxx

Rahd'ni watches sharply as, first, Radek safely crosses the nara span and, then, Sheppard follows, shambling as though half dead. The colonel has flagged behind them all day, clearly spent but too hard headed to concede defeat. However, if Rahd'ni is to be perfectly honest with himself, he knows it is because Sheppard only wishes to curry his favor. The Lantean would likely drag his own carcass through even the darkly fabled Tre'Merktee and back if it meant turning Rahd'ni's heart even the slightest. The man is a stubborn creature, perhaps as stubborn as Rahd'ni himself, yet he cannot continue at this pace.

The guildsman flushes and shakes his head. He has been too hard upon the Lanteans, driving them at a grueling pace that no man unaccustomed to could keep up for long, let alone when bearing a hefty cast as Sheppard does. The colonel will not make it to the next eder tomahn, that is certain, not without lengthy respite. As soon as they are free from these treacherous grounds, he shall find a suitable node from the original expedition for them to rest and for him to consult his maps once more.

Sheppard tilts oddly on the beam, riveting Rahd'ni's full attention back upon him. The colonel's steps grow small, staccato, and unbalanced. He pauses, as though lost.

_Sheppard slumps against his restraints, weak and battered as the Wraith is dragged off by Koyla's men. His blood boils with rage at the sight of the Genii's smug little grin at Sheppard's suffering, yet they are helpless to do anything to save him._

Sheppard stumbles, his body listing dangerously to the side.

"MAHLAH!" Rahd'ni shrieks, forgetting in his haste and fright that the Lanteans do not speak D'ni, nor understand the swift, curt order to come.

Sheppard cocks his ear to the side, but he does not seem to hear as his body slowly crumples beneath him from the heat. Ronon launches into motion, but he is too far to save the man. Rahd'ni can see that quite clearly from where he stands, even as he springs into motion. Before Sheppard can tumble into the lava pool, Rahd'ni's hand shoots out and grabs a fistful of the colonel's cloak. Rahd'ni rears back, digging his heels into the nara and jerking Sheppard back to him. The obviously unconscious man collapses into him, nearly knocking Rahd'ni right off the other side. However, Rahd'ni recovers quickly, and, in no time, Ronon is at his side to help. Together, they drag Sheppard from the plank, to the safety of solid ground and beyond, into the cool air of the Path beyond the cavern.

Only when Rahd'ni gives pause does Ronon loosen his white knuckled grip upon Sheppard. They lay the colonel down upon the Path with great tenderness and care, mindful of his cast encased leg. Ronon pulls the protective helm from Sheppard's head and presses the wide pads of his fingertips to the pale man's neck, finding a strong pulse there. Then, Ronon lets out the breath he did not realize he had been holding, realized with immense relief that it is merely a combination of the heat and exhaustion which has overcome Sheppard.

Rahd'ni scowls bitterly at the man and bellows, "What were you thinking coming across like that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Ronon replies with a sarcastic shrug. "That Sheppard looked like he needed saving."

"What if the bridge hadn't held?" Rahd'ni demands, sounding ever so much more like the Rodney McKay of Atlantis who bickered and berated other members of the expedition for their seeming incompetence.

"Well, he wouldn't have been in that mess if you'd just listened to me in the first place," Ronon hisses darkly. "I told you he needed rest," Ronon grouses in a low rumble. "Almost got Sheppard killed."

Rahd'ni blanches, but the Lanteans return their attention to their fallen compatriot and do not notice. As Radek and Ronon tend to Sheppard, Rahd'ni retreats to the cloaking darkness of the tunnel beyond. He reaches a hand out and touches the smooth nara lining to the Path, allowing himself to be guided by touch through the shadows and away from the Lanteans. Rahd'ni does not leave them too far beyond, just enough so that he can breathe once more. Once alone, he sinks to the ground, draws his knees up to his chin and wraps his arms about himself, shaking with….. is it fear? Shame? Regret?

Rahd'ni sits for some time in the darkness, hugging himself against the alien and frightening. He is not usually so hasty, so callous, and his miscalculations have nearly cost a man his life. He should have noticed the weakness in Sheppard earlier, but he had been too keen on being rid of the Lanteans once and for all, pressing the man far beyond what was necessary. Rahd'ni chastises himself over and over again for his idiotic and almost near fatal mistakes.

Finally, when the man has regrouped enough, he pulls a fire marble from the pouch tucked safely in his pack along with his journal. He strikes the fire marble and holds the glowing, red orb in his palm as he cracks the spine of the leather bound book. It is an older journal of his, already filled cover to cover with notes, diagrams, equations, and, most important of all, his maps. This is his journal from his one and only previous trip to the surface, and, as such, it includes the maps he had compiled before the trip from the records of the Guild of Surveyors and the Guild of Minors, annotated with his own experiences.

For a time, Rahd'ni sits and contemplates, chewing on his nail as he does. One of the eder tomahn lies not far beyond, but it would be cruel and utterly barbaric to force Sheppard any further than necessary today. He back tracks from the eder tomahn, skimming his finger along the map before finding an entirely suitable node and nodding.

With a heavy heart, Rahd'ni rises and returns to the Lanteans, delicately announcing, "There is a place not far from here where we can rest. Quite safe." He approaches the fallen colonel and looks to the scowling Satedan hesitantly. "If you would help me…." Rahd'ni pauses and bites his lip, trembling slightly. "Please?"

Ronon's scowl fades, replaced by sympathy. "Sure."

xxx

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xxx

When Sheppard awakens next, it is to confusion. Gone is the blistering heat and orange glow of the magma chamber, replaced, instead, with chilled, refreshing stillness. He blinks in surprise and finds that he is lying upon the ground, looking up into what seems a dark sky filled with stars. No. For, as Sheppard rubs his eyes and focuses, he realizes that what he had initially taken as stars are the sharp points of crystals glittering with the light of Rahd'ni's lantern. He is in the middle of a giant geode of what might be amethyst or quartz.

"Wow…."

It is all Sheppard can come up with to say at that time. The geode is an impressive and glorious thing, far more beautiful than he could have ever imagined as a child.

"Ah. You are finally awake," Rahd'ni's voice greets him sadly.

Sheppard rolls onto his side and discovers that the man is sitting beside him, just watching him as Radek and Ronon seem to be exploring the far expanse of the geode. Rahd'ni seems cowed, his shoulders sagging. He looks tired and worn under the red light of the firemarble resting in the center of his lantern.

"What happened?"

Rahd'ni drops his gaze. "You fainted."

Sheppard winces at the term and shakes his head before correcting, "No, _passed out_."

Rahd'ni cracks a timid smirk. "Alright. You passed out." He pauses before offering, "Do you think you can walk a bit further? There is an eder tomahn close to here."

Sheppard's stomach growls loudly at the thought of food, and he asks, "Will there be room service?"

Rahd'ni chuckles slightly at the jest. "Perhaps." He shrugs. "I suppose it is the least I can do for nearly causing your decidedly untimely demise."

"Then, yes."

Sheppard smiles. It is a small thing, whatever has transpired between them, but he cannot help but feel it is a step in the right direction.

xxx

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xxx

They progress much more slowly in their ascent with limited progress in drawing Rahd'ni closer. Radek does not notice it at first, but Sheppard and Ronon do. As time goes on and as they progress further in their journey, the distance Rahd'ni keeps between himself and the Lanteans fluctuates. He sometimes lags a bit, allowing the distance between himself and the Lanteans to close before seeming to recall his plot and striding off again. Despite that, Rahd'ni makes it a point that Sheppard rest every hour or two for at least a few moments before continuing on, easing the strain on the colonel from the steady climb to the surface.

They see many wonders. Further geodes and crystals, including several with Sheppard thinks may honestly be diamonds the size of tangerines. They cross underground rivers and skirt about even a massive waterfall in the rock that sends a gentle, misting spray. Upon one rest stop beside a meandering stream in the darkness, the three Lanteans even spy sightless fish and salamanders skittering about in the water, smiling with delight at their antics.

It is on the fifth day, however, that they come to perhaps the most incredible sight to behold and what looks to be the worst challenge of this journey.

Sheppard whistles in appreciation of the sheer enormity of it as he slowly revolves. "Would you look at that!"

Rahd'ni smiles warmly, beaming at the sight. The Path has a small pause in it here, where the Council diverted from their original plan of a tunnel cut at a maximum of 3825 torans – or 22.032 degrees – from the horizontal. Here, in their excitement to reach the surface in a timely manner, the Council had elected to construct a wide, towering shaft. The construction had taken several weeks to hew a perfectly cylindrical shaft in the stone. It is a marvel of surveying and engineering, the very pinnacle of D'ni mining. Upon closer inspection, however, Rahd'ni notes with dismay that the spidery thin tracks which once circled upwards and carried passenger carriages up and down the shaft have torn away from their mountings and crossbracings spanning the shaft, likely during the quakes. Without a functioning carriage, they shall have to make the ascent on foot.

Rahd'ni points it out to the Lanteans, who groan in turn. However, when any of them stops to think about it, they each realize in turn that this is better than continuing on at the slow, steady pace of the Path. If they are truly as deep in the earth as this great shaft implies, it would take months to reach the surface at the gradual climb the Path took.

"This is going to blow," Sheppard laments.

Rahd'ni grimaces sourly. "Indeed it will." He glances to the colonel and claps him on the shoulder. "We shall proceed slowly and with care, yes?" As the colonel nods, Rahd'ni stares up solemnly at the shaft where the shadows swallow the stone walls. "There is no telling what other damage has been dealt."

Radek's stomach flops at the thought, yet the Lanteans nod and follow as they begin to ascend, climbing a narrow staircase hugging the wall of the shaft and spiraling upwards. Now, Rahd'ni stays close to the Lanteans, within a step or two. They make frequent stops, sitting on the stone steps. As they do, Rahd'ni consults with his maps and marks the journal, annotating the damage to the shaft at various elevations, while Radek glances over his shoulder at the complicated schematic.

Finally, Rahd'ni sighs and states firmly, "It is rude to pry."

Radek flushes. "I'm sorry."

Rahd'ni closes the journal and hands it to the Czech, who stares with wide eyes but does not take the book. "Go ahead." When Radek still hesitates in taking the book, Rahd'ni insists. "It is not as though you can understand D'ni."

Radek nods and takes the journal, thumbing through the leather bound tomb reverently. Rahd'ni's work in this particular journal seems to encompass a variety of topics, none of which include ZPM manufacture. Instead, Radek finds that this journal seems to detail much broader topics, illustrated by Rahd'ni's hand. He finds pictures of different individuals, all political officials or nobles, it seems, as well as various illustrations of buildings and rooms. Then, about midway through, the journal documents the Path in vivid detail, including an accurate map of the labyrinth in the rock, a series of catacombs so dense and intricate that Radek now realizes would be impossible to traverse without a knowledgeable guide or map such as this.

Radek pauses on a drawing towards the end of the journal. It is a crudely drawn image compared to the finesse of Rahd'ni's other pictures, obviously drawn swiftly, more of a gesture than an actual completed piece. The image depicts the rough form of three people. A man, a woman, and a child. They are sitting together on what appears to be these very same steps.

"You have traveled to the surface before," Radek whispers in surprise.

"Yes. Once."

Radek points to the three half-formed persons on the page. "With other survivors?"

Rahd'ni swallows hard, reclaiming his journal. "No." When Radek furrows his brow, Rahd'ni continues, "It was before. Before everything."

Before another word can be said, a faint, humming sound meets his ears. Rahd'ni rises slowly to meet the strange noise, tilting his head to the wide void of the shaft to better catch the sound. The Lanteans strain, their ears unaccustomed to filtering the normal sound of D'ni ventilation systems running through the labyrinth on their own, operated by no master. Yet Rahd'ni's ears, acclimated to this environment and the general din of such, clearly hear something amiss.

When the sound swells abruptly, Rahd'ni knows what it is before the horrible, lurching motion of the rock even reaches them on high. "TREMOR!"

The earthquake rises up beneath them like a wave racing upwards. The shaft reverberates suddenly in simple harmonics, producing a single, perfect note piercing through the air so loudly that it cuts down to the bone and seems to cleave right through the skull. The entire shaft quivers and jerks wildly, so much so that the travelers hurl themselves at the wall of the shaft, hugging the smooth, ebony stone for what little safety it offers.

From overhead comes a sickening crack that stops Rahd'ni's heart. He glances upward just in time to spy a fissure open between two of the nara slabs which line the shaft before one of the pieces falls away. He has no time to react, not even to move as the nara rips away from the shaft and tumbles towards him. As the nara falls, it strikes his arm with a horrific snap, knocking him from the steps.

"RAHD'NI!" Sheppard cries out, reaching for Rahd'ni, but the man is gone, taking his lantern with him and plunging the Lanteans into darkness. "RAHD'NI, NO!"

xxx

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xxx

It is the gentle, lulling hum of the cleft which stirs her from her sleep. She opens her eyes but hardly wakes. She merely rolls over and curls up tightly under the blankets. It is just the rock settling beneath them, as it has for five years now. She hugs herself, but against the loneliness of an empty bed and not for the trembling ground beneath her. It will pass shortly, as it always does, while her grief will never pass.

xxx

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xxx

Dr. Jennifer Keller awakes from her nightmare with a sharp gasp and drenched in sweat. She does not remember the dream. In fact, the more the physician struggles to cling to the nightmare, the more it slips away from her. Yet, she recalls the distinct impression of someone she loves being in grave danger.

It has been some days since they last had contact with the paltry expedition party of Ronon, Sheppard, and Radek, and there is no telling now what has happened to them. Any attempts to establish a wormhole to Atlantis have been met with nothing short of failure. Each night, she has cried herself to sleep, wondering what has become of her friends, her lovers, her family, yet each day brings the same news that there simply is no news.

Keller rolls over and draws the covers close before drifting back to a dreamless sleep.

xxx

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xxx

The Lateans grip one another and the rock face as the shaft continues to howl and shake about them until, just as suddenly as it started, the tremor subsides, leaving the shaft still and silent once more. The preternatural silence that follows in the wake of the tremor is both eerie and almost deafening in its own right after the cacophony of the earthquake, broken only by the sounds of their breaths and heartbeats. Worse still is the darkness, so deep and so pure in void that it seems it could swallow the Lanteans whole.

When he comes to himself, Sheppard reaches about blindly and pats the two men beside him. "Ronon, Radek? You two okay?"

"Yeah," Ronon rumbles in the dark.

Radek's response comes just as swiftly. "Yes. Rahd'ni?"

There comes no reply from the darkness.

Quickly, Sheppard collects himself and rifles through his pack, fumbling about to find the smaller pouch of fire marbles from within. Several of the small, cold orbs slip between his fingers, but the bottom of the pack catches the escapees. Sheppard finally produces a single fire marble and pauses, biting his lip in uncertainty. Rahd'ni has always lit the stones, and Sheppard does not know precisely how to light the fire marble. He fiddles with the small, cool orb for a moment before finally sorting out how best to strike the marble. It flares to life with a warm, orange glow, lighting their perch upon the steps quite clearly. He passes it to Ronon and strikes two more, a blue one for Radek and a red one for himself.

He peers over the edge and stares out into the darkness, straining to see. The lantern has fallen to the bottom of the shaft, illuminating only the perfectly circular base below. The bottom of the shaft is curiously empty save for the ruined D'ni lantern, yet everything between is shrouded in shadow.

"RAHD'NI!" Sheppard screams into the dark. "RAHD'NI!"

A faint sound meets the ears of the Lanteans, perhaps a moan or perhaps just the rock settling about them. Sheppard's heart flutters in his chest fearfully. He holds the fire marble out over the edge, but, still, the colonel spies nothing.

"RAHD'NI!"

The three Lanteans listen apprehensively, but nothing sounds further in the shaft. They cannot hear anything nor see anything below, not a single sign of Rahd'ni. Sheppard extends his arm out, avoid the emptiness of the shaft and drops his red fire marble. The Lanteans watch carefully as the marble drops, illuminating a small section of the shaft as it descends until, suddenly, there! As it drops beside one of the crossbracings for the carriage tracks that span the mighty cylinder before clattering to the ground, Sheppard spies what appears to Rahd'ni, lying so very still upon the bracing.

"There!" Radek cries out, pointing, but, by that point, the single, crimson fire marble has already passed Rahd'ni, leaving only shadows behind. The Czech looks to Ronon and Sheppard with wide, fearful eyes, asking, "Is he….?"

The Satedan shakes his head, holding his orange fire marble over the precipice. "I don't know."

"He would have answered us if he was conscious." Sheppard hisses through his teeth, mentally calculating just how far Rahd'ni has plummeted before landing. "We've got to get down there." Sheppard digs through the pack Rahd'ni has provided him, finds a length of sturdy rope with a harness of some kind, and passes the rope to Ronon, instructing, "Here, tie yourself off."

"What?"

"We don't have time to go back down. It's not like I can repel with this goddamn thing on my leg. You're going to have to go," Sheppard reasons.

The Satedan shakes his head. "Not happening."

Sheppard blinks, dumbfounded. "Ronon….. we can't leave him."

"We're not." Ronon glances about. "Look around you. There is nowhere to tie off securely up here." He gazes firmly at Sheppard. "I know you're strong, but you're not strong enough to hold my weight on your own."

The colonel nods slowly. It is true. Without anywhere to secure a climber on high, whoever goes down must rely on whoever remains behind to hold their weight as they climb. Sheppard is a strong man and quite capable, indeed, but Ronon is easily fifty pounds heavier than he, a measure of pure muscle without an ounce of superfluous flesh. It is a matter of simple physics that Sheppard failed to recognize in his haste to get to Rahd'ni.

"I can't climb with this leg," Sheppard murmurs, glancing over the edge.

"I know," Ronon breathes.

"What do we do?" Radek asks timidly. "We cannot leave him."

"We're not going to," the Satedan informs him, placing the harness in the Czech's hands. "You're going down."

Radek's face goes white even in the colored light of the fire marbles, and he stammers, "No, no, no. I cannot go down there!"

"It's the only way," Sheppard reasons sternly, refusing to take the harness back as Radek repeatedly and quite frantically attempts to hand the thing back off. "Radek, Radek, listen to me!" The Czech freezes, and Sheppard firmly catches his gaze. "Radek, we don't know if Rahd'ni is hurt, but, judging from his height, I'm betting he is and, quite possibly, badly. Ronon's right. He's too heavy for you or I to anchor him, and I can't move well enough in this cast to get around down there. It's you, or nobody."

"I'll fall!"

Sheppard shakes his head curtly. "No, you won't. Ronon and I will be up here to anchor you. We won't let you fall."

Radek trembles but, eventually, nods, seeing the logic to it. "Alright. Alright."

Ronon and Sheppard help Radek get the harness about him and ensure that it is secure before tossing the loops of rope from his and Rahd'ni's pack about the Czech's thin neck. Through it all, Radek quivers and quakes with fear, perhaps more than the rock did in the earthquake. He bites his lips. Radek has never enjoyed going off world like the other Lanteans, favoring a cozy, safe laboratory over the thrill of adventure. As such, he is understandably terrified. The Czech holds himself together until Ronon helps him settle his feet firmly upon the edge of the steps.

"No!" he cries out, shaking violently. "I am sorry. I cannot do this!"

"Yes, you can," Sheppard speaks evenly and flatly. "You have to." He puts his hand on Radek's shoulder and feigns a chortle. "Just imagine how you'll be able to lord this over Rodney when he gets his memories back."

Radek forces a laugh and sniffles, scrubbing his cheeks with the back of his hand. Sheppard feels his stomach sour; the Czech has been crying silently this entire time as they have been outfitting him for the climb. The dark of the shaft has concealed his tears until now.

"Okay. Okay."

Sheppard knows he is not, but he admires Radek for it as the Czech follows their instruction and tips himself back, over the edge. Ronon and Sheppard grip the rope tightly, letting it out little by little as the smaller man descends slowly but surely. The hulking Satedan eases the rope between his fingers, feeling it tremble even from on high as down and down Radek goes, holding his fire marble to light his way.

Suddenly, he cries out. "Slow now. I think….. I can see him, now."

"How much farther?" Ronon grunts.

"Four…. No five meters." Carefully, the Satedan lets precisely five meters slip between his hands before the rope falls slack and the Czech calls up, "I am here!"

Ronon and Sheppard crawl to the edge of the steps and peer out in surprise. Radek kneels on the crossbeam, gripping it tightly with one hand and the fire marble with the other. In the pale blue light of the curious little orb, they can see that Rahd'ni lies just beyond Radek, perched ever so precariously until the fine structure of the bracing system. His legs and right arm dangle dangerously off the crossbracing.

"Okay, hard part's over," Sheppard yells down, trying to keep his voice calm and as reassuring as possible. "You can do this."

Radek gives a nervous jerk of his head in what seems something akin to a nod, but, from that height, it might just be a trick of the odd light imparted by the fire marble clasped in Radek's hand. Agonizingly slowly, Radek inches out onto the structure. Sheppard and Ronon hold their collective breathes as the Czech moves, crawling out at a snail's pace. If and when they get themselves out of this mess, Sheppard knows he will owe the Czech _immensely_.

A moan startles the three Lanteans as Rahd'ni stirs slightly with a small shudder.

"Rahd'ni?" Radek calls in a small voice.

Rahd'ni groans louder now, reaching for his head and shifting his weight upon the beam. His disorientation is visible even from Sheppard's vantage point as he moves to massage his head. He is dazed, and badly, possibly concussed. Rahd'ni has taken a seriously blow in the fall. He does not even seem to comprehend the grave danger of his current predicament.

Sheppard orders from above, "Rahd'ni, listen to me and listen very carefully. Do _not_ move a muscle. Just stay right where you are. Radek's coming for you."

Rahd'ni blinks slowly. He moves his left arm and yelps in pain, drawing the limb close to his chest. He reaches out subconsciously with his right hand, perhaps to find something to pull himself upright with, and finds nothing. He gasps sharply and flails in the air, awkwardly. Rahd'ni gives an inarticulate cry of surprise and fright.

Ronon bellows without thought, forgetting the last several years that have passed between them. "McKay, stop!"

Rahd'ni freezes abruptly, staring up into space with wide, horrified eyes. Neither Sheppard nor Ronon know if Rahd'ni obeisance stems from memories of life as Rodney McKay or perhaps from flashbacks of torture at the hands of his captors. Neither cares. They only care so much as it keeps Rahd'ni from moving any further and potentially pitching off the crossbracing to the punishing stone floor below.

"Good, that's good," Sheppard calls down as Rahd'ni stills. "Radek's on his way. Just stay there."

Radek takes that as his hint to continue onwards across the structure. He murmurs gentle utterances in Czech, fluid, liquid words that lull. Rodney McKay, while a genius, never spoke nor understood Czech in his life, often claiming that Radek hid behind his native language and insulting him for it. As such, it is unlikely that Rahd'ni understands a word Radek says. It is the calming, soothing effect which is of unspeakable value, keeping Rahd'ni still as a statue until the wiry man reaches him.

"Good, Radek," Sheppard reassures. "Sit down. It'll lower your center of gravity and make you more secure, okay?" Radek straddles the crossbrace, dangling his legs over the nothingness; once he is settled, Sheppard nods and calls, "That's perfect. Slowly now, I want you to tie yourself off."

Radek swallows and nods, but the task is not as easy as Sheppard makes it sound. In order to secure himself to the bracing spanning the wide gulf of the shaft, he must first set his fire marble down and, then, let go with both hands. Radek sets the glowing marble in a small, dimpled pit in the framework and works to muster up the courage, but, when he lets go with his right hand, he feels so insecure that he immediately grabs the crossbrace again.

"I cannot!" Radek screams, shaking his head.

"Yes, you can," Sheppard calls firmly once more.

Radek sobs openly, the sound echoing in the shaft. "I am not you! I cannot do this!"

Both Sheppard and Ronon grimace, each feeling the sting of what they are putting Radek through. However, they have no other choice if they are to save Rahd'ni. It hurts to know that Radek's terror is wrought from their hands, but it will hurt worse if Rahd'ni tumbles to his death.

"I know, I know, Radek," Sheppard says. "But you've got to do this. C'mon, Radek, be smart. We've still got you on the line. Besides, if you give up now, everything you've done will have been for nothing."

Ronon smirks at the somewhat dirty ploy, but the colonel seems to get through to scientist. With shaking hands, he slowly takes one of the lengths of rope from about his neck and ties a tight knot to his harness. Then, Radek ties a second knot to the structure beneath him. The crossbracing is a strong yet delicate seeming lattice of stone and metalwork, offering plenty of opportunities to tie off.

Radek crumples forward over the knot, hugging himself for a moment before composing himself enough to crack out, "Okay. Done."

"Good. You're doing great, Radek. Now, tie off the second rope, but leave maybe six feet loose."

Radek swallows convulsively once more but does as he is told, making a tight, secure knot.

"Perfect," Sheppard praises him further. "Now make a loop on the end big enough for Rahd'ni."

The Czech obeys, tying a wide loop, and the colonel gives another nod. "Great. Now, Rahd'ni, Radek's going to give you the rope. Put your arms through it first, and, then, put it over your head."

Rahd'ni does not answer, gives no indication that he has even heard the colonel. Sheppard's heart nearly stops entirely. The man is clearly injured and has lost consciousness. He might have a concussion, or, perhaps worse. Kellar did mention serious head trauma, and it is entirely possible that the fall could have exacerbated the prior injury.

"Rahd'ni? Rahd'ni, talk to me." When the man does not answer, Sheppard shouts, "Rahd'ni, god damnit, answer me!"

That seems to rouse the man enough, and he whimpers, "I hear you."

"Radek…."

"Rahd'ni, the rope," the Czech breathes, placing the loop gently upon Rahd'ni's chest, careful not to disturb the man any further.

"Rahd'ni, put your arms through the rope," Sheppard orders.

The three Lanteans hold their breath once more as Rahd'ni fumbles feebly with the rope with his right hand alone. Sheppard bites his lip so hard that he nearly draws blood, but there is nothing he can do from up there, nor is there anything Radek can do without risking toppling Rahd'ni. No. Rahd'ni must do this. Sheppard watches as Rahd'ni manages to put his right arm through the loop, but his left arm does not move.

"Come on, Rahd'ni, both arms," the colonel chides, trying to keep this somewhat light hearted, if possible.

Rahd'ni clenches his teeth and manipulates his left arm with his right. The very slightest of movements tears a shriek of agony from the man that cuts right through Sheppard. It cannot be helped. Rahd'ni continues to shriek blood curdling screams as he pulls his left arm through the loop as well. Then, he lies there, gasping and panting.

Sheppard waits, letting Rahd'ni calm once more before calling, "Almost done, Rahd'ni. I just need you to put your head through, too."

A pained noise escapes Rahd'ni's lips, but he complies, ducking his head through the rope loop. He flops back, his head striking the bracing with a thud audible even to Sheppard and Ronon on high. Both men wince at the sound, yet Rahd'ni hardly gives it any notice. Enough of the old Rodney McKay lingers in the man that Sheppard and Ronon know that Rahd'ni must be in agony if he is unable to issue a single complaint. Sheppard tries not to think about it, focusing instead on the intense relief washing over him to know that Rahd'ni cannot so easily freefall to his death now with the rope about him.

"Good. Okay, Rahd'ni, you can sit up. Slowly, slowly," Sheppard repeats the stern warning again and again, mindful of precisely how irritating it must sound.

Rahd'ni moves awkwardly, pushing himself up. He hangs his legs down, as Radek does. He moves stiffly, cradling his left arm close to his chest and moving the limb as little as possible. Rahd'ni flops forward, hanging his head and taking deep, heaving breathes. Radek reclaims his fire marble and holds it out. Rahd'ni squints and turns away. The Czech acts without thought, catching Rahd'ni by the chin and holding him still with the intention of checking the man for a concussion. Unfortunately, the abrupt action causes Rahd'ni to jump in frighten, twisting in Radek's grasp to jerk away from his hold, but it nearly sends the man pitching right off the crossbracing.

"No!" he grunts, shaking his head and wriggling weakly in Radek's hold.

"Shh… shh…." Radek coos tenderly, murmuring once more in both Czech and English. "Shh…. It is alright. You must be still, Rahd'ni."

His mouth moves on autopilot, breathing gentle assurances and promises of care and safety, if Rahd'ni would only calm down and be still. The Czech rubs Rahd'ni's uninjured arm, feeling him shiver with what might be fear or possibly a neurological reaction to the blow he must have taken either when the stone clipped him or when he landed. Rahd'ni stills under those humble ministrations, blinking his eyes methodically in a daze.

"Are you alright?" Radek inquires in but a whisper, still massaging the man's arm.

Rahd'ni nods and instantly wretches from the motion, gagging on a few mouthfuls of sickly, sticky bile. Radek winces in a mixture of sympathy and repulsion. Rahd'ni hacks until he can only give a few dry heaves.

Radek waits for Rahd'ni's stomach to seemingly settle before asking, "Better?"

"Yes…."

Radek squeezes Rahd'ni's arm and looks up to the two men waiting above. "Now what?"

"Radek, help Rahd'ni get the other harness on."

The Czech does the work for Rahd'ni, who merely sits meek and pliant, focusing on keeping his roiling stomach from rebelling once more.

"Okay. Done!"

Sheppard pauses oddly before venturing, "You're not going to like this next part, Radek."

Radek scoffs both angrily and nervously. "I have not enjoyed any of this!"

"I know," Sheppard concedes. "I need you to untie yourself from the main rope and tie Rahd'ni to it."

"WHAT?" The scientist blurts out before launching into a diatribe of Czech profanities.

The colonel allows Radek to swear and rant below until he goes quiet once more. "I know, I know. But you're still secured there. You're still safe, and you can file a formal complaint when we get out of this."

The Czech continues to rail, but he still obeys, griping every moment in his odd mix of languages. "Done."

"Until his other line from the frame."

Radek swiftly does so. "Alright."

"Rahd'ni, we're going to hoist you up now." Sheppard glances to Ronon. "Steady now, yeah?"

Ronon nods and, together, they begin to pull Rahd'ni up. At first, Rahd'ni grunts and gives other sounds of pain, but, in time, the noise falls away, leaving nothing but a frightening stillness. Ronon picks up the pace, hauling Rahd'ni up nearly by himself. He is unconscious by the time they drag him back onto the steps. His left arm is swollen and likely broken, but, thankfully, his respiration and pulse seem strong. Sheppard and Ronon share a quick smile.

The Czech snarls from below, "Excuse me, but I trust you have not forgotten me."

The three Lanteans exchange a laugh.

xxx

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xxx

Rahd'ni surfaces some time later, sprawled out upon the steps by the Lanteans. They are speaking softly, as though afraid of waking him prematurely, and do not notice his blue eyes moving about and surveying the situation warily. His left arm is bound in neat, mass produced bandages. The appendage feels heavy and dead, pain free, which is surprising as he remembers quite vividly being struck by the nara slab on his forearm. He flexes his fingers and grits his teeth against the flare of pain that surges through his arm as a result, yet it is not nearly as bad as Rahd'ni knows the pain should be.

Sheppard's voice startles him. "We had some painkillers in with the first aid supplies. Nothing fancy, like morphine, but it should take the edge off."

Rahd'ni gives a small laugh, but it comes out as more of an exhausted huff. "Not the good stuff, eh?"

The three Lanteans are all taken back by the comment, another fleeting glimpse to the man they once knew. Could it be possible that sitcom quality amnesia recovers are possible? That all it would have taken to cure Rahd'ni's memory loss was another blow to the head? Yet, Rahd'ni says nothing more on the matter, offering no further clues to any further injury or potential healing resulting from the fall. Sheppard ignores it, recalling that small fragments of Rahd'ni's memory have briefly surfaced before and subsided just as swiftly. He will not allow his hopes to be gathered up only to be dashed apart when Rahd'ni's memories fail them once more.

Sheppard takes one of the fire marbles and holds it up, casting Rahd'ni's face in a light so pale blue that it is almost white. Rahd'ni clamps his eyes shut and turns away. Sheppard frowns. It could simply be hypersensitivity caused by so many years in the dark, or it may be further indication of concussion.

"I just need to check you out."

Rahd'ni reluctantly obeys, staring as Sheppard passes the fire marble back and forth over his eyes. Their reaction, thankfully, seems normal. Sheppard doubts that Rahd'ni has a concussion, but he will keep a close eye on the man, just to be safe.

Rahd'ni speaks in a hushed utterance. "You saved me."

Sheppard blinks and, then, nods. "Yes."

"Why?" Rahd'ni rasps, his voice thick with emotion.

"Because…." Sheppard pauses, chewing on his lower lip; there are so many reasons but only so few of any real value. "Because you're our friend. It's what friends do. It's what we've always done for each other."

"Thank you."

Sheppard smiles slightly. "Hey, I told you. It's what we do."

Rahd'ni nods listlessly. They rest for some hours on the steps before continuing on. However, now, Rahd'ni travels closely with them as they navigate the labyrinth of tunnels up to the surface.

xxx

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For three days, that miniscule earthquake nags at the back of her mind until, finally, she cannot bear it any longer. That morning, there is little work to be done about the cleft, and, so, she elects to venture to a place which she has not visited in many years. She rises before dawn in the dark twilight and packs a canteen of cold, clear water from the spring at the base of the cleft before setting off. The child slumbers on, unaware of her departure. If she leaves now and travels swiftly, she will be back before he wakes.

She skirts about the base of the dormant volcano beside the cleft before cutting out and onto the open desert. She crosses the desert sands on nimble feet, practically skimming over the dunes lightly the entire distance to the circle. It is no more than a mile from the cleft, yet, under the desert sun, it would be a grueling mile to walk. In the cool light of the predawn twilight, however, it is a nearly refreshing hike. She can forget about her troubles and toils keeping both herself and her son alive and fed. She wonders if she can even forget about the friction between herself and her son if she just keeps running.

In what seems no time at all, she finally comes upon the circle. It is a curious sight in the center of the desert, an absolute, _perfect _circle consisting of stones seemingly graded by sizes radiating outwards from a center hollow of sand alone. Her father had come across it many years before, and the two of them had spent several days pondering the creation of such a fantastic sight. Surely, they had surmised, such a phenomena could not be a natural occurrence, yet it would have taken years for men to sort the rocks so effectively and arrange them at such precise orientations. On a whim, she had suggested to him that it was more as though the stones had been shaken from below, and both she and her father had laughed it off.

She smiles wistfully; her father had passed not long after.

She drifts with her memories and tarries at the circle for some time longer than intended before turning back at dawn. When she does, her heart lifts, and, unbidden, a song passes her lips. She has not sung in many years.

As she passes the volcano once more, something catches her eye, and she drops low to the ground instinctively. The desert is an unforgiving place, populated by select predators including both animals and less than savory humans. She has been cautious these years, shielding her son and concealing his presence from the men she trades with to maintain their meager existence. The shadow moves, and, as the first light of dawn crests the mountains to the east, she spies what seems to be four, cloaked men stumbling from the lip of the caldera and down the side of the volcano.

She furrows her brow but rises to her full height to wait for them to approach. They seem haggard and disheveled, trudging and shambling along. They stop not far from her, their mouths hanging open in surprise. They simply stand there for a long moment before one separates from the others. He walks awkwardly, his arm bound up in a sling and putting him slightly off balance.

He crashes to his knees at her feet and sobs out, "Lady Ti'ana."

Her heart hammers in her chest. She has not heard that name since the day her husband died; nor has she heard that voice since before then, since before those final, terrible quakes shattered her world. She crouches down with him and pulls his goggles free from his head, savoring the look of familiar, blue eyes shining with unshed tears in the light of dawn.

She throws her arms about him, clinging to him tightly. "Oh, Rahd'ni…."

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**Author's Notes : **Yes, it is quite long, but, as always, I do hope you enjoyed.


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